The Catalyst
by LadyRhiyana
Summary: DISCONTINUED Ten years later, Toby disappears. Sarah plunges headlong into an ancient feud that will encompass the whole of the Underground.
1. Self deception

A/N – This little scene wouldn't leave me alone, it kept distracting me until I finally gave in and fleshed it out. There is some small inspiration for continuing on with it and turning it into a real story, but I'm not sure if I have the time. So if I don't update this, my apologies, but real life does unfortunately have priority over fanfic.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Don't sue me. I do own Bran though. Even so, don't sue me.

Vulnerability

The subtle, elusive feel of magic gave the air in the corridor a faint charge, just enough to be noticed, subconsciously, by anyone sensitive enough to feel it – just enough to identify the wielder by the unique 'taste' of his power, and by the arrogance it took to even think of using magic for their own purposes here, of all places in the Underground. 

Here, in the stronghold of the High King, the very heart of the Underground, the oldest and most sacred site in the land, the Fae walked in respectful awe, conscious of the sanctity and the very real power that beat, like a great pumping heart, right under their feet. 

This was the Centre of the Underground. 

And yet, and yet…

On a balcony overlooking the West, a pale, elegant form braced his forearms against the stone balustrade, leaning against it, narrowing his eyes against the glow of the sunset. But whatever he watched, in his solitary vigil, it was not the forests and the rivers and the shadows of the mountains – not with that amused, almost cruel half-smile curving his lips…

Not with the feel of his magic – powerful and exquisitely controlled – rising like perfume, like thunder in the air. And most definitely not with that crystal – so deceptively delicate – dancing almost absently along his gloved fingertips. 

The Council of Lords, held under the High King every nine years, was a meeting of the utmost importance, where vital decisions affecting the whole of the Underground were undertaken in concert and consultation, overseen by the High King's guiding and mediating hand. It was not something to be taken lightly, and yet the Goblin King stood staring off into another world, laughing – as only he could laugh – at something he found more fascinating than the business of the Council. 

A soft, almost imperceptible sound – a scuff against the tiled floor, a whisper of a breath – and with a graceful flick of his fingers, the pale figure banished the crystal, and turned his head fractionally, just enough to identify the interloper who came up behind him. 

He smiled – a genuine smile, despite the amusement that infused it. The Goblin King rarely did anything that was not, in some way, infused with mockery or amusement…

"Brother Raven," he said, his voice light, his eyebrow tilted. "You disapprove." 

The man known only as Bran said nothing, but leaned against the balustrade beside him. He was dark where Jareth was fair, grim where Jareth was bright. Finally, he turned towards his King, who was waiting patiently for his answer to what had not been a question.

"You were watching her," he said; gazing at the mountains, face impassive. 

Jareth turned towards him, towards the first man who had ever sworn loyalty to him, the first man he had ever fully, truly trusted. And knowing the depth and the strength of that loyalty, he dropped all of his pretences, all of his masks, and all of his defences. 

They knew each other so well dissemblance was unnecessary. 

"Is it such a crime then?" he asked. "To want something, someone for myself?"

Bran's mouth curled in genuine, if bitter amusement. "You would ask that of me, of all possible Fae in the Underground?" He had been known by another name, once, long ago – and had been stripped of the right to bear it, had been stripped of everything he owned, and valued, and loved. 

Jareth knew that much, at least. It had always been enough for him, before. "I would ask that of you," he said quietly. 

Bran's eyes closed, and he tipped his head back, offering himself to the sunset, to the light. Finally, he only sighed, and opened his eyes once more, fixing them – cool, steady silver – to Jareth's mismatched ones. "When kings develop desires, they become vulnerabilities." His smile gentled, became wry. "Especially when the king is so indiscreet as to indulge his desires in the High King's very palace, during the Council."

Jareth smiled, razor sharp and mirthless. "Ah, yes, the Council…" His standing among the Lords of Fae had always been precarious – he had carved his own Kingdom out of the chaos of the last Great Wars, had taken influence and power for himself rather than inheriting them – and they lost no chance in reminding him of it. 

Goblin King. Lord of Outcasts, of Exiles, of Renegades and Pariahs…

Oh, how they would love to see him fall. 

If the Goblin Kingdom failed, far away to the west under the shadow of the mountains, the reverberations would not trouble the greater kingdoms of the Fae. If the Goblin King fell, or was pushed, there would be no great recriminations, no retaliation for the youngest son of a father who had exiled him without hesitation. 

He refused to go under, to give in, but his Kingdom could not – no matter how much he might like it – exist in total isolation. There had to be some trade, some interaction with the rest of the Underground. And thus he had to play their Game, to come to the Council, to interact and intersect, to play politics in all its hypocritical glory. 

Youngest – and once best beloved – son of the real power behind the throne of the Summer Court, of the Seelie King, he had grown up with the Game in his blood. He was a master of manipulation, of deception, of misdirection. 

And that was why he watched her. 

Because she was untouched, untainted by the Game that tarnished everyone who played it. Because, even innocent, even untrained and naïve, she had turned his own Game back upon him, had shattered the web he had woven, the web that would have trapped all those others, so experienced, so confident in their abilities – and in doing so, had turned what would have been an illusory offer into something very like the truth…

She had beaten him. She knew the way through his Labyrinth, she knew the way he thought and the way his magic worked. She was indeed, as Bran had said, a vulnerability – and just as he had also said, she had become his desire.

And the mix of the pragmatic and the emotional responses were enough to fascinate him – fascinate his Sidhe mind that thrived on puzzles and mind games – to the point where he forgot himself enough to watch her even here, even at the Council where his enemies would go to great lengths to destroy him. 

But, even knowing that, he couldn't deny himself the pleasure of watching her, watching the innocence and the cruelty, the naiveté and the unconscious wisdom of a girl just on the edge of becoming a woman, who, once she attained her full growth and maturity, would be everything he had ever wanted, and could never have. 

Shaking his head to dispel the wistfulness, he turned his eyes back to Bran, who watched him so steadily, so clearly – Bran, who watched but never judged, who had been by his side almost since the beginning, and who knew him as no one but she had ever done. 

"Allow me this one indulgence," he said softly. "It will go no further than observation. I will not allow desire to turn into vulnerability."

But there was no hiding the truth, not when it hovered so clearly between them, even unspoken and unacknowledged. It was too late – far, far too late.

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	2. Stubborn Disbelief

A/N – I have ignored real life long enough to write this story, and some more chapters of my other one Footprints (shameless plug). Jareth and Draco will not leave me alone. Chapter 2 – enter Sarah, and the beginnings of a plot. 

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth, or anything at all in this story except Bran and the fledgling plot. Don't sue me; I'm a struggling uni student. 

Chapter 2

She'd always hated playing games. 

Of course, like many other hang-ups in her life, it dated back to her mother's leaving; to the way she had made life hell for them in the last few months before walking out…

Linda Williams, the consummate actress, with her bright, laughing eyes and the charisma that glowed about her, drawing her daughter's adoration like a moth to a flame… Linda Williams, who was not cruel so much as chronically superficial, loving her daughter and husband as much as she was could, but craving the limelight and the heady heights of fame even more. But in her restlessness, in her impatience, she had been cruel, never knowing how her inconsistency and the way she had blown hot, and then cold, had scarred an impressionable girl, and taught her to hate deception as much as she learned to practice it in self-defence. 

Sarah had drowned her sorrows and insecurities in fantasy – she'd almost lost herself, too. It had taken a game of stunning proportions to wake her up…

But even so, she still had a deep and abiding mistrust of deception, manipulation and games, reinforced ten times over by the mocking eyes and maddeningly elusive smile that still haunted her dreams, and the silken voice purring honeyed lies into a painfully innocent girl's ear. And she had sworn to never, ever touch a peach again. 

She was twenty-five years old and she wore no masks, sported no social facades, and did nothing to detract from the truth of who and what she was. And if it made some people uncomfortable, if it offended more people than it endeared – well then, she had no need of them. She could stand on her own, and she didn't need anything or anyone else. 

Unfortunately her trip through the Labyrinth, which she had tried so hard to forget, filled with ambiguity and grey areas as it was, so deceptive and elusive in its precise details, would come back to haunt her every now and then, just when she was on the brink of putting it behind her forever. 

When she saw the shadow of an owl against the full moon, when she heard with half an ear an eerie melody playing on the wind, when she glimpsed, out of the corner of her eye, a fair haired, pale figure who held himself with all the languid grace of a supreme predator, and when she turned to look, would be only a man, only a mortal….

When she felt the hair rise on the back of her neck, and she heard the whispers on the empty wind. 

_"…She knows him, she knows how he thinks," _the wind whispered calculatingly, cunningly, "_she defeated him once, she can do it again…"_

_"She doesn't believe anymore," _said another, _"she doesn't believe in him, or in us – if she doesn't believe, then there is nothing we can do…"_

No, she didn't believe anymore. She wouldn't believe. Because believing would mean that it had indeed been real, and if it had been real, then the whole fabric of her life, everything she believed in, everything that had kept her centred, would be wrong – and that was unthinkable. She hated ambiguities, and grey areas, and everything that threatened the nice, safe, sane world she had created for herself in self-defence.

She would not believe. 

*********************************************** 

Of course, had she but known it, her stubborn disbelief – and Sarah could be very stubborn – was the only thing that saved her from becoming involved, willingly or not, in the politics of the Underground. In the ten years since she had sent Jareth's carefully crafted illusion crashing around his ears, and despite the care he had taken to keep it quiet, word had leaked out that someone, somewhere, had beaten the Goblin King at his own Game, had confronted him in the place of his greatest power – in the heart of his own Labyrinth – and trapped him in the web he himself had crafted. 

It had taken them years to find her; she had been very well shielded, concealed from their eyes by Jareth's magic – smooth, subtle and intricate safeguards, trademarks of his work – but they had been determined, and the touch of the Underground marked all those who had ever set foot there. She burned with it, burned so strongly the Goblin King's strongest wards couldn't completely mask her. 

Who was she, this mortal girl – only passably pretty, really, with her human looks – that Jareth would expend so much time and energy to protect her? How, in her disbelief, in her eternal conflict between the fantasy she knew, instinctively, was real, and the black and white that was all she allowed herself to see, had she ever found her way through the torturous physical representation of Jareth's mental defences?

No one knew, not even she herself knew. 

But, understanding or not, she was a very valuable pawn, possibly the very key that they had been waiting to find for a very long time. Now that they had found her, all they had to do was breach the Goblin King's safeguards and bring her back Underground – once touched by its magic, anyone bearing the mark of the Underground could be brought back at any time. But the only thing standing in the way of such a simple plan was her disbelief. 

Humans had no magic. But they had faith – and that was just as strong a force. 

*********************************************** 

He watched her, as he had done for the last ten years, through the distortion of a crystal. He could have seen her more clearly had he ventured Aboveground in his owl form, but had not dared to run the risk of bringing her to the attention of his enemies – of which he had many and many. However, lately he had felt – an unidentifiable instinct, a nameless quiver of ancient nerves – that someone else had found her, was watching her. 

The wariness was expected; the surge of sheer possessiveness was not. 

Gods of Earth and Sky, had he not watched her with other mortal men, watched as she allowed them to touch her, to kiss her? She was twenty-five years old, he knew.  

But this was different. This was not a mortal, powerless and relatively unimportant in the grand context of the Game that defined his whole life. These unknown watchers were a direct threat to something he had always considered _his; _had he not set the strongest shields he could make about her? Had he not kept her safe from realities she would rather not acknowledge, from truths she might have discovered as a legacy of her trip Underground? He had blinded her to the magic in her own world, because that was what she had so desperately wished. 

Because everything she had asked, he had done…

And what the Goblin King considered his, he held and protected. That was the promise he had made to all those who had come to follow him, when he had first needed support, when he had first set out to carve a kingdom out of the wilderness. Serve me, and I will serve you, follow me, and I will lead you… 

Defend me, and I will protect you. 

The goblins he had united under his leadership, no matter how numerous or fierce, were simply not strong or intelligent enough to hold a kingdom against any and all who would take it away from him – his security was founded on the strength, magic and loyalty of the fae outcasts he had accepted as his own. They had been exiles, outcasts, fugitives, all nameless, stripped of their pride and their dignity and their past by the law, by the wars, by sheer chance and circumstance. They had no status, and no names, nothing but their strength and their ability to fight, and the smallest, smallest hope of a second chance, another life. Their belief in him – an untried, inexperienced youth with nothing but ambition and a dream – had given him the strength to achieve that ambition, fulfil that dream.

And in return, he had protected them from anyone – anyone and anything – that would harm them. 

Somehow he doubted that Sarah would accept such a bargain. Even so, he had to make sure that she would not be turned against him…

Or that she herself would turn against him – a subtle difference, true, but even more disastrous than the former.

When Kings have desires, they become vulnerabilities… 

Swearing softly, he banished the crystal. If his enemies managed to breach his safeguards and overcome her disbelief – a more fragile shield than it seemed, given her bone-deep reaction to the Underworld – then he would have to be prepared for it. He had not come this far, endured and paid far too much, to fall victim to a pair of deep, blue eyes filled with innocent wonder. 

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So, what did you think? Tell me what you liked, or what you didn't – I'm strong enough to handle it, I promise… Seriously, feedback is truly appreciated. Thank you to the people who reviewed the first, introductory chapter/scene.


	3. Watchers

A/N – Chapter three, and the second half of this chapter ran away with me, and wrote itself independent of what I thought it was going to be. However, I hope that you don't mind it too much, but it could certainly make for an interesting plot… As requested by a few of my reviewers, I have also included more Bran, and some hints about his past. In case anyone was wondering, Bran actually means raven or crow in Welsh. 

CHAPTER 3

In the depths of the Castle beyond the Goblin City, inside a stark, circular chamber with no windows or doors, no entrances or exits at all, a wide, shallow silver bowl filled with clear, pure water rested on a velvet-draped table. Three men, somehow alien in this hushed, almost sacred place – they were warriors, fighting men, whose capacity for violence all but shimmered in the air around them – stood around the table, and looked into the bowl, into the reflections within the water. 

_A dark haired woman, tall, wearing mannish clothes looked over her shoulder, frowning…she shook her head, dismissing the truth she had no desire to see. _

_The silvery intricacy of the Goblin King's magic danced about her, hiding her, making it impossible for any to see her, unless they watched from this bowl, in this room…_

_But, watching her, they became aware of others, others who also watched her…_

A black-gloved hand passed over the water, rippling the surface, dismissing the reflections. In a swirl of dull black, Bran turned away from the table to lean against the wall, his grey eyes dark as he watched the other two shake off the effects of the shared vision. 

Copper haired, with vivid, sardonic green eyes, the man who chose to be called Caede rubbed a hand over his smooth-shaven chin, thoughtfully considering the implications of what he had just seen. He looked across to his half-brother – brown-haired, brown eyed Owen, whose human blood had been the final, public reason for their mutual exile – and raised an eyebrow. Owen nodded curtly; yes, he had felt it too.

"There's someone else watching her," Caede finally said to Bran, who was watching them expectantly. "I thought that was impossible."

Bran's mouth curved, just a bit. "Apparently not." He straightened, and Caede and Owen followed suit, but not with the alacrity of long hours of drill practice – they were not tin soldiers, who looked pretty on parade but were useless in a fight, they were experienced veterans with no patience for prancing and posturing. Knowing this, knowing the temper and mettle of the men who had sworn service to him, neither Jareth nor his right hand had ever insisted on perfect discipline off the field. 

It was just one of the things that was different about the Goblin Kingdom, and the man who ruled it. To Caede and Owen – brothers in blood as well as the sword – the years since they had accepted Jareth's offer and had ended their exile to take service with him had been the best ones of their lives. Here, no one would spit on Owen because of his human blood; here, no one would condemn Caede because he stood by his brother and refused to give in to the prejudice so prevalent elsewhere in the Underground. 

Because there were those with far worse sins than mixed blood who served with honour in the Exiles. Take Bran, for instance – no one knew anything about him, although rumour and legend abounded. All anyone knew was that he had been the very first to come to Jareth, nearly a thousand years ago, before the King had even united the Goblins, before he had even had a kingdom to rule. Bran had come out of nowhere, a dark, grim figure calling himself the Raven, and had been the King's right hand ever since. 

They said he had been a great lord, once, or a prince, or a great general, or a great champion…

They said that he had had everything, once, and had lost it, or had had it stripped away…

They said that he had once loved, and loved magnificently, before his whole world fell down…

But whatever he had been, he had taken a young, naïve aristocrat more used to the shadowy manipulation of the Games played in royal courts by glittering, cultured courtiers than the physical, practical ways of power over normal men and warriors in the real world, and had taught him everything, had been his threat and strength, until the King had developed his own ruthlessness… 

Because once, long ago, not all of the Exiles had been loyal, not all of them had been satisfied with serving, and some had tried to take power for themselves, or to open the way for others, outside. 

But all that was long past, long before Caede and Owen had even been born – there was no doubt now who ruled the Goblin Kingdom, and no question of his power, despite all his affectations and extravagances. Underneath the silk and the satin, the glitter and the glamour, there was an implacable will, and very strong, exquisitely trained magic; he could also use a sword quite well, and had done so, in the very earliest days when it had been necessary. 

It was not necessary now, but it seemed as though it may be again, if the look in Bran's eyes was any indication. Normally impassive and supremely calm, he was troubled in a way that Caede had never seen before, and it was all to do with that woman he had seen in the water. 

"What's going on, Bran?" he asked, vaguely troubled himself now. "Why are we concerned about a threat to this woman, this…Sarah?" He pronounced the name with a vague distaste – not all of the denizens of the Goblin Kingdom had been glad to know the Labyrinth could be – indeed, had been – defeated. None of the Exiles had been happy at all. If the Labyrinth, their last line of defence, had been compromised…

It was not just a question of a return to exile. Some of them had enemies, dangerous ones, who were only waiting for them to emerge from under Jareth's protection. And not all of the outcasts and renegades were warriors…

Bran sighed. "She could be a threat to us, yes," he said calmly, as if Jareth had not told him he would not countenance any kind of…pragmatic solution to the problem Sarah posed. "But not on her own. However, if someone else gets hold of her…"

Owen – shy, quiet Owen who normally let his brother do all the talking – spoke up, comprehension in his eyes. "You'd prefer that _we _hold her?"

Bran nodded slowly. "If it comes to the point where the King's safeguards fail, and she is called back, then yes, he has ordered us to make sure we are there to claim her, and not anyone else. We have prior claim, she first entered the Underground here, but that won't mean a thing if others get hold of her, hide her away, and erase any evidence of her arrival…"

Caede swore quietly. "So we watch, and if she should somehow be called back Underground, we make sure we are there first." 

Bran raised a brow, and smiled a little mirthlessly. Put that way, it did sound a little ridiculous. But his orders had been explicit. "That's right, Caede _bach._" His smile widened, became far more sardonic. "So between you two and some others I will notify soon, there will be a twenty-six hour watch on this bowl, and if you see anything that looks even remotely like trouble, come straight to me. Is that clear enough?" The two brothers nodded, Caede not entirely happy, but Owen thoughtful, and Bran, satisfied that his orders would be carried out, quietly turned and, concentrating, left the room.

*************************************************** 

Far, far away to the east, two men discussed, over a very tolerable brandy, the realms of power, of possibilities, and of politics. They stood – or rather one of them stood – in a private chamber, richly appointed in silks, velvets and satins, almost swallowed by the luxury, which verged perilously close to the ostentatious. But, one supposed, some things could be overlooked in the name of diplomacy. Despite the somewhat questionable taste, their host held very real power…

"Have you ever wondered," said the first man, who was very cunning, if a little young and rash, in a rather more dramatic tone than his audience thought quite proper, "what it would be like, were the Lord of Exiles to fall?" 

His audience, seated while the other man stood, calm where the other was almost agitated in his enthusiasm, looked at him through sardonic eyes, chin propped on long, slender fingers. "I have thought of it, yes," he replied noncommittally, as was his right, as the other's superior. 

"Just think of what we could do," the first man breathed, his eyes almost misting over. "We could bring all of the smaller kingdoms of the Underground into the fold, under our protection, once the Goblin King's influence over them is broken…"

"They could just as easily go the other way," the second man pointed out mildly, almost earning a scowl from the other, before the first man realised just whom he was addressing, and the price of offending him. 

"Yes," he answered, deflated, "I suppose they could…" His round, animated face was a picture of disappointment, but underneath, there was a zeal, a faith and a belief that made the second man instinctively wary. He had no liking for extremes of any sort – especially extremes of emotion – and distrusted anyone who felt too strongly about anything. 

A man of half-shades, of greys, of shadows and illusion and deception, he had earned, over the course of a very long life, a reputation as one of the major players in the Game, if not _the_ major player. There was no one who could come close to his skill – there might have been, once, but that had been a long time ago…

"For centuries, the Goblin Kingdom has been the leader of all the Kingdoms who will not join with either us or the Unseelie," the first man spoke, pointing out facts that they both knew all too well. "While these non-aligned Kingdoms are not powerful enough – either singly or together – to directly challenge either of us; if it comes to a war, they could throw in their weight with one side and tip the balance against the other…"

The second man silently, ironically applauded this summary of the current political situation he himself had helped to create. "And so?"

"We _must _break the Goblin King, break the power of the Non-aligned – we cannot afford to take the chance they will turn against us." And there was that zeal again, the blind faith that he knew what he was doing, that his way was the right way, the only way, and that everyone who refused to fall in was automatically an enemy. 

The second man, smiling a little ruefully, took a sip of his brandy and, because he could not quite help it, gave in to the impulse to stir. "And what of the High King? I doubt he would approve such…drastic actions…"

The first man snorted. "The High King? He is no more than a figurehead, with no real power at all. The only people who believe in the High King's Writ anymore are the ignorant peasants who don't know any better." 

He was so self-righteous in his belief, thought the second man, so certain of his own importance and power. But then, most of the younger generation, those who had grown up as the High King's power had indeed waned, and the structure of the Underground had gradually become bipolar, seemed to share the same traits. 

Once, long ago, the Underground had been a true federation of Kingdoms, each sovereign and independent, balanced and governed by the authority of the High King. Once, there had been true freedom and self-determination, and it had indeed been every bit as magical as the mortals imagined Faerie to be. Then had come the Great Wars, especially the second and last one, and things had changed, Kingdoms had begun to align themselves into two major camps – the Seelie, who classed themselves as everything bright and pure, and the Unseelie, who saw themselves as the liberators of all those who had been oppressed under the old system, or by the prejudiced Seelie. 

Their conflicts had locked the Underground into almost two halves, and had deadlocked the Council of Kings, so that, as long as the High King's role had been restrained by new custom to guidance and mediation, nothing of real importance was ever really decided…

The only factor that allowed for any real flexibility at all was the presence of the Non-aligned, which, by playing both poles against each other, managed to chart a course of relative security through the murky politics and insecurities. 

He wondered, rather absently, as he held the brandy glass up to the light, just why he was so discontented with the current situation when he had been one of the main architects behind it. Why did he remember the High King's Writ so keenly, when it had been he who had drafted the proposal that had all but crippled it?

And why was he so dubious about this plan to break the Goblin Kingdom, when it would finally achieve what he had worked so long to bring about…

"My lord," the first man asked, questioning whatever he had seen in the reflections of the brandy glass. "Are you well?" 

He shook his head absently, banished the doubts and the morbid thoughts. "I am fine, Huw." He looked up as another man entered the room, shutting the doorway behind him. "Well?" he asked quietly, raising a brow. 

Their host, a minor – very minor – lord of the Seelie, but with an unusual talent for scrying and projection on the mortal plane, nodded his head, bowing low. "It is done, my lord…" 

With a wave, he dismissed him, and turned his attention back to the brandy. So, it was done – there was no undoing it now. 

"My lord," Huw's young, earnest voice interrupted yet again, no doubt seeking reassurance that this venture they had embarked upon would succeed, or even that it was right and good that they do it. But he couldn't speak for the rightness or goodness of it; he didn't believe in such things, anymore – only in power, and so had no such reassurance to offer. 

But for once, Huw managed to ask an original question and surprise him. Perhaps there was hope for him after all. "Are you sure that you will go through with this, my lord? After all, he is your-"

Lord Aethan, the right hand of the King of the Seelie, the eminence noire of the Summer Court, almost flung up a hand to stop the words they both knew to be the truth from being spoken. He looked Huw in the eye, holding the contact until the younger man dropped his eyes and the subject, sufficiently warned never to bring up the past – specifically that aspect of it – ever again. 

"See that quarters are made ready for her arrival," Aethan said, no longer contemplative but ready for action. "She will be here soon. We must have everything ready for her when she arrives…"

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So, the plot thickens…

Please, tell me what you think. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Feedback, suggestions and comments are even more welcome. 

Real life is biting with a vengeance, now – the next update will be in a while. Major assignments are a necessary evil…


	4. Whispers

A/N – Apologies for the delay, but I've got a bit of time to write now and a general idea of where the story is headed. This chapter is just a small interlude to get back into the swing of things after my absence. Nothing much happens, just a small glimpse of Sarah and her selective blindness, and another look at Aethan who I think is fascinating – and because I'm the author, you're going to be seeing a lot of him. (What do you think?)

Also, I think this would be a good time to mention the invaluable help and assistance of my friend, advisor and beta reader Jess, who listens to my wildest flights of fancy and is always willing to toss ideas around. Thanks muchly, J. 

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue me.

Chapter 4 

In her dreams, she was fifteen years old again, wilful, stubborn and proud – oh, so proud, that she could stand in judgment of the Goblin King, of whom she knew nothing, and find him cruel, and callous, and false, so utterly false…

_I wonder what your basis for comparison is._

What had she known of true cruelty, at fifteen? What had she known of villainy, of falsehood? What had she known of the Goblin King, that she had presumed to judge him? 

Foolish girl. So confident in the stories and stereotypes she dabbled in, so strong in her youthful certainty that there was good, and evil, and nothing in between. 

She knew better now. Oh, yes, she knew better…but even now, she marvelled at the vivid hallucination that had so changed her life ten years ago. What an imagination she'd had then, to conceive of a land and a quest and a king that she still dreamed of, even now. 

Of course it hadn't been real. There were no such things as goblins, or hidden magical kingdoms, or spectacular kings with glorious voices. 

***************

She knew that. When she was awake, she knew that very well. It was only her dreams – her stubborn, wilful dreams – that would not let go, that refused to be closed to fantasy, to the magic that was all around her, if she could only let herself see. If she chose to truly look, then not even the Goblin King's strongest safeguards could prevent her from seeing. 

Of course, that was the wondrous simplicity of Aethan's whole plan – Sarah's will was far, far stronger than the Goblin King's illusions and deceptions. All they needed to do to rip those safeguards right open was to get her formidable strength and determination to work for them. 

If she could be made to believe once more…

**************

In the cold light of day, with the hustle and bustle of everyday life surrounding her on all sides, it was easy to indulge in the fantasy of her disbelief, to convince herself that of course there was nothing more than this, of course the world was composed of steel, and plastic, and machinery, and that it was created and shaped by science, cold analytical and utterly tangible science, and not magic, never magic. 

As she walked down the busy street on her way to work, with the touch, taste and scent of the Underground irrevocably marking her aura, she didn't see the way certain people would hesitate, stop, and turn to watch her pass. Nor did she notice the sudden flurries of movement along the ground, along the top of the buildings, or the distortion of the air as the magical denizens of the Earth, whom she refused to believe in – who had been hidden from her sight, because she wished it so – tried to catch her attention, to call out to her as they had done before her trip to the Underground. 

Before she had come back, blinded, but with more ability to see – had she wished to – than she had ever had before.

_Sarah, _they crooned. _Sweet Sarah, why do you not see us?_ Normally, their voices and their actions could not penetrate Jareth's safeguards, such small and petty magics as they, the lesser fae, were able to wield compared to their cousins in the Underground, and especially compared to the sidhe. But Jareth's power was diluted by the distance and by her own disbelief in him – he had no power over her, except that which she gave him – and today, of all days, there was another variable at play.

The feel of another power, whispering on the wind…feeding the small folk's voices, their glamour, their power, so that they could – almost – penetrate the wards surrounding her with their voices. So that as she walked, the hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she caught movement from the corner of her eyes – just as she had done on _that night_ – and she heard, on the periphery of her mind, sibilant whispers and ghostly snatches of bizarre, dissonant music. 

Sarah… 

She stopped, turned around, but there was nothing. 

Nervously hauling the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder, she peered around, but saw nothing except human faces, all intent and absorbed in themselves and their own business, nothing but the same, familiar streets of New York she had seen everyday for four years, since she had moved here after finishing her degree. 

She shrugged, and moved on.

********************************************* 

She dreamed of magic, of extraordinary creatures, of glorious vistas, of a land where the sun always shone and it was always summer, where beautiful alien people dressed in shimmering gowns danced in forest groves, laughed and rejoiced and gloried in their life and their magic…

She woke with tears on her face, yearning for something she couldn't name or even define. 

Hands shaking, she rolled out of bed and walked, blindly, to the sink, cupping her hands to drink the cold, sobering water and splash it over her face, hoping to banish the images she had seen in her dream, and in similar dreams from every night this week. She had thought she had managed to stop dreaming of her little hallucination some six months after the fact, and that the dreams would never, ever return, but this was even worse. Now, she was dreaming of people and places she had never even seen. 

She was afraid to sleep, lest the dreams return – had been afraid since the first one – and the less she slept, the more tired she became, and the stronger the dreams became, even to the point of haunting her even when she was awake, every time she closed her eyes.

******************************************

Aethan's eyes glittered as he watched her twist and turn, desperately tired but afraid to go back to sleep. Her defences were slipping, and with them her ability to close her eyes and her mind to what should be so utterly obvious, to rationalise her blind disbelief, was slowly but surely eroding. Soon, that keen, instinctive mind and the corresponding ability to see through illusion, deception and misdirection would rip through all the illogic she had constructed, and the Goblin King's wards, which relied on her willingness to accept what they gave her, would collapse. 

Coldly pleased with the progress of her unravelling defences he turned towards the man whose unusual ability to project his power Aboveground and feed power to the small folk had made all of this possible. Amazing that such a minor lord – and with such essentially weak magic – could manage such a thing; he had never seen anything like it, and in his long, rather shadowy life, he had seen a great many things. 

That minor lord was lying sprawled on a day bed now, dangerously tired after projecting the dreams and illusions Aethan had woven especially for the girl, after feeding most of his power – his own power, this time – to the small folk. But he was by no means exhausted; rather, he was flushed with a dangerous energy. His pulse was rapid, racing, and his eyes glittered feverishly – and that was an unfortunate thing, Aethan had always found, an inevitable precursor, in those with little power who thought they could play on an equal par with the masters of the Game.

It seemed that Aethan had given the man the impression that he was needed, that he was a necessary part of this plan – well, and so he was, to the first part – and as such, the man thought that he could put a price on his services, and on his silence after the fact. He could see the thoughts working in his head, see them racing through his eyes, and watched as fear of his reputation – a reputation very well earned – warred with the man's own ambition, greed, and arrogance. He wondered, with detached interest, which side would win out – whether he would do the sensible thing, or whether he would give into his ambition and force him to destroy him.

As he watched, the other man smiled unpleasantly, his eyes hard and calculating. "Tell me, my lord," he purred softly, "how badly do you want this girl?"

Aethan kept his eyes steady, and reminded himself that he still needed him for a few more days, until he could completely smash the mortal girl's defences. And after that, well…

He smiled. 

The man had just enough sense to shiver, and wonder what exactly he had gotten himself into.

*********************************************** 

Inside the room with no windows and no doors, Jareth watched her intently, a frown marring the perfection of his pale, smooth visage – but he had no care for such things at the moment, not while he watched Sarah toss and turn, and fall deeper and deeper into a cunningly laid trap that bore all the hallmarks of -

Deliberately, he made a sharp dismissive gesture. No, he would not think of that. He had put it behind him long, long ago…

There was nothing extravagant about him at that moment, nothing but intense concentration and a glimpse of the strength he usually hid under his amusement; in fact, there was a decidedly grim cast to his mouth as he watched her, calculating the political cost, and feeling something deeper underneath, something far more powerful…

Something he had no right to feel, when she had so righteously rejected him.

Why did he feel as if it was a personal insult that someone was somehow hurting her, when she was nothing more than a mortal, when she was nothing more than another pawn to be used in the eternal Game that had ruled the Underground for centuries? Why did it almost hurt to watch her distress…

Soon. It would be soon, now. There was nothing he could do to alleviate her distress, or even to halt the process of stripping away her defences; the best he could do now was to ensure that when she did return to the Underground, she would not fall into the wrong hands. 

Because if that happened, especially with the dislike and distrust she bore him, the consequences could be disastrous…

******************************************* 

_Sarah, _the almost-voice whispered, in a crisp, aristocratic accent that sent ice trickling down her spine, even ten years after the fact. _Sarah, wake up…_

****************************************** 

Hehehe… that seemed a good place to leave it. 

Next chapter, Sarah wakes up.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed before – you're all wonderful. Please, tell me what you think. 


	5. Recruitment

AN – Here's chapter 5, hopefully a bit longer and with a bit more meat. If anyone is confused about what is happening, please tell me what exactly is confusing you and I'll try to explain; I'm not trying to be too cryptic, but my beta tells me sometimes I try to be too clever. 

If anyone is having trouble with the political situation, just think of it like Cold War politics (without nuclear weapons) – two major opposing blocs, and then the few small countries that didn't support either of them but played them off against each other (the Non-Aligned). 

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. It's all Jim Henson's and Lucasfilms'. I swear. 

Chapter 5 - Recruitment

Far to the east of the Goblin Kingdom, in a land of rich, rippling fields of grain and secret, hidden valleys there was a lake, smooth and calm as glass, as a mirror, that reflected the achingly pure blue sky above it so perfectly, so flawlessly, that it was hard to tell, sometimes, which was the true sky and which the illusion.

This lake, this mirror, was in the heart of what was called the Summer Country, in the Underground; where the fields were always golden and abundant, where no one went hungry, and nothing unpleasant would ever dare happen, because this was Summer, where the sun always shone, and Winter would never dare to come to these lands.

Of course, this was a myth; the land had seasons like the rest of the Underground, but because it enjoyed a remarkably temperate climate, the weather was always – even in winter – relatively mild, and the land incredibly fertile. And as for the remarkable reign of peace and prosperity, that could be attributed directly to the King's authority and management – or, more cynically, to Lord Aethan's authority and management. 

At the moment, though, one could say they were one and the same. 

The true sacred place of the Summer lands could be found, if the seeker was worthy, on the Tor that rose – at certain times, on certain days – from the middle of the lake; the Isle of Glass, the palace of the King of Summer and his glittering Court – now the palace of the King of the Seelie. 

Cormack Ruagh, the Summer King himself, stood in a private room in his palace and watched his chief advisor and his young, almost ridiculously intense aide, and another he only vaguely recognised, in the flames flickering in the hearth – there were many ways to scry, and this was the way he preferred. Stroking his thick, rich red-gold beard, he wondered just what Aethan was up to now…

Of course the man was up to something. In all the time he'd known him, Aethan had never been content to simply sit back and let events take place without his guidance; he'd always – always – had to have a hand in it, to have some sort of control over the situation. Sometimes that was a good thing, and sometimes not – and that damned son of his was almost exactly like him, always playing some sort of game, always testing their cleverness and their audacity.

To the King's mind, both father and son were as bad as each other – for the last thousand years or so they'd been trying to do each other harm; he suspected that they'd kept it up for so long because they actually enjoyed the battle of wits. But this, he sensed, this was serious. Aethan was no longer playing just for the sake of it, this time whatever it was he was doing, he was deadly serious about it. And that was when it stopped being fun and games, and turned into something that could be very dangerous…

Of course, that was what happened the last time, when Aethan's youngest and favourite son tried his hand for the first time at real, serious power politics, had tried to beat his father at his own game, and had come so, so close to succeeding… It had been the final spark needed to unleash a world war. To be fair, the Underground had been on the brink of war anyway, but even so…

That had been almost a thousand years ago. How much more experience would both Aethan and his son have gained? How much more serious would the consequences be now? And how much would it cost to rectify the situation this time… 

********************************************** 

It had been close to twenty years since some good chance had led Aethan to choose Huw – Huw, out of all the others he might have chosen – to be his aide, his errand runner, and his student. In those ten years Huw had done everything he could to live up to his lord's expectations, but he couldn't help but feel that, somehow, in some way, he was a disappointment to Aethan. Perhaps it was his youth, or his inexperience, or perhaps – and this was more likely – it was his enthusiasm, and his eagerness. 

He had noticed – how could he not? – Aethan's aversion to strong emotion and extremes of any sort. He had also noticed that it was a trait almost exclusively found in sidhe aristocrats of the old school, from the old days; well, Huw was not sidhe, and he was not an aristocrat, and he could not remember the old days. He had been born after the last War, and he had grown up with the ideology and the rhetoric of the rivalry between Summer and Winter – he had real difficulty treating such important matters with Aethan's detachment, with his cynicism and scepticism about everything Huw had always held sacred. 

But for all his indifference, for all his nonchalant approach to matters of state, Aethan took what he thought to be his real work – the preservation of order, peace and prosperity in the Underground by any means – very seriously. And if he thought it necessary to break the Goblin Kingdom and the Non-Aligned to do so, then he would. Huw had every faith that Aethan would succeed; there was nothing the man couldn't do if he put his mind to it, if he thought it so necessary he would do anything – even go to the extremes he so distrusted – to achieve it.

The only problem was in convincing him that it was so necessary. The Goblin Kingdom had stood for so long for two very real reasons – Jareth's political instincts and the reputation of his Exiles, and the remnants of Aethan's affection for him. Aethan had spent ten years searching for the mortal girl, who, so it was said, had defeated Jareth, and it had taken him so long because – and only because – there had been no real urgency in his search. Perhaps one could even go so far as to say (quietly) that he really didn't want to bring Jareth down…

He could not say the same for this rustic fool of a baron who was in this with them, lording it over them both because he felt he had something they needed, something they could not do without. Huw's blood boiled every time he saw the fool cast triumphant, or even contemptuous looks in Aethan's direction, every time he made disparaging remarks about a reputation blown all out of proportion, and strength declining with age. But if Aethan, cool, calm and collected, was not going to react to even the most transparent of insults, then Huw could control himself. And besides, that indifference and the supreme arrogance of his unconcern made the baron look like a fool; perhaps there was something to that languid, rather lazy manner after all.

But, there was one thing Huw knew that the baron didn't; underneath that indifference, Aethan had indeed noticed the scorn and contempt – as soon as the fool was no longer needed, then all those insults would be repaid in full, and with interest as well. There was nothing inflated about Aethan's reputation, and he was not in the least bit tamed, or mellowed, or weakened, no matter how old he was.

And this was the last time that the baron's special abilities would be needed. After he made one, last disparaging comment, the unsuspecting fool closed his eyes, went into a trance, and took the last step needed to make the mortal girl susceptible to the Underground once more.

****************************************** 

_Sarah, _the familiar voice purred in her ear. _Sarah wake up…_

She opened her eyes sleepily, reluctantly – and _screamed…_

_****************************************** _

Caede swore viciously. "In the Morrighan's name, what is going on?"

A thick, impenetrable mist had filled the water of the scrying bowl, completely concealing the mortal woman's bedroom from their sight – that was impossible, no one should be able to do that. This room was sealed off from the outside, the only ones who had access to it were utterly trustworthy…and outside interference was simply not plausible.

But there it was, right before his eyes. Someone had blocked them.

He turned to Owen, who nodded and ran outside – ran, forgetting any ideas of dignity or pride – to find Bran. Ten minutes later they were all gathered round the table, he and Owen and Bran and Jareth himself, all of them silent as they absorbed the implications of the blocked scrying bowl. 

Anything could be happening to her – anything at all – and they had no way of knowing what was going on, and no means of helping her at all. That not-knowing, the helplessness, made Caede and Owen nervous, because they had less idea of just what could go wrong – so horribly wrong – if Sarah's knowledge were turned against the Goblin Kingdom. It sent chills down Bran's back, because he could imagine only too well the Labyrinth standing in ruins, the Goblins leaderless and barbarous once more, and all the Exiles once more vulnerable to any and all who would harm them. Too easily, he could imagine being alone again, adrift and purposeless, without anything to live for or believe in because it had all been taken away from him once more, because he had not been able to protect it…

And Jareth, of them all, saw the political implications, but dismissed them as unimportant as he worried about what was happening to Sarah herself; was she safe, was she unharmed? _By the Gods, if anyone hurt her…_

************************************************** 

There was someone in her room. She knew it, she could feel it with every ancient instinct she had, standing on edge and screaming at her as the adrenaline rushed through her veins, as her heart pounded and a cold, clammy sweat broke out along the path of her spine. She drew breath to scream again, louder and shriller this time, when a cool, radiant ball of light appeared, filling the room with light, illuminating the intruder and casting his features into strong relief.

Involuntarily, she gasped – old memories came rushing to the fore as she relived a night she had thought long gone, long forgotten… And then she realised that this was not the same man, that this was not _him – _although the resemblance was extraordinarily strong.

Her scream died, stillborn. She sat there, in her bed, and watched him – transfixed by fright, and the unfamiliar rush of adrenaline, until he finally damped the harsh glare of his light and it faded into something more familiar, something more comforting. 

With it, his features lost their unearthly stark contrasts, and became merely alien, subtly, oddly different to human features in their sharpness, in their angles. Now, she could see the differences to the Goblin King she had hallucinated so long ago – this man sported no glitter, no weird painted patterns around the eyes, his hair was more restrained although just as white, and most of all, his clothes were almost normal – long tunic, down to his knees, loose breeches and boots, in stark black.

But they did share the same smirk, the same…knowing glint in the eyes, in the curl of the mouth…but instead of the feline cruelty she remembered in the other man, this one had amusement lines, and his eyes were almost…kind. The eyes – oh, god, the eyes were completely, exactly alike…

No, this was not the Goblin King. But she was willing to bet everything she had that they were related in some way.

Finally, she worked some moisture back into her very dry mouth. "Who…" she stopped, swallowed, tried again. "Who are you?" She asked the question automatically, still not really believing that there was a mythical being in her bedroom for the second time in her life. Things like this simply did not happen to her, to Sarah Williams – and that time ten years ago didn't count. It didn't. This was simply a very realistic dream. Of course it was.

The mythical being raised an eyebrow in a very familiar gesture. But unlike that other hallucination, he didn't mock her, didn't play with her – answered, as if he had known just how her mind worked and which approach she responded best to, with the complete, direct truth and, had she known it, appalling bluntness. 

"My name is Aethan," he said simply, "and I need your help."

***********************************************

Eyes closed, his fingertips resting lightly on the Baron's third eye, in the middle of his forehead, Aethan smiled – the same cruel, almost feline curl of the lips that his son the Goblin King used so often and so infuriatingly. Of course, the illusion of him in the mortal girl's bedroom – flawless, utterly flawless, some of his best work – did not reflect this, but continued watching her with such intensity, such earnest, honest attention.

Now to smash her disbelief, and turn her strength – oh, that strength and determination he could almost feel radiating from her – to his purposes. 

Humans were such gullible creatures…

*********************************************** 

"You need my help?" she repeated, rather foolishly. But then, she felt she had a right to be confused, and disoriented. Such visitations as this did not happen everyday, after all.

Happily, he made no comment on her dazed state, did not appear to even notice it. She decided that she liked him more and more...

"Yes, I'm afraid I need your help…" he held up a hand as she frowned suspiciously. "I know this sounds rather odd," he laughed, a little self-deprecatingly, "but, unfortunately, it's true. I would not have come here if there were any other choice…"

Her frown deepened, and he shook his head, holding out a hand in what was almost an entreaty. "Hear me out, please…" 

Finally, she seemed to come to a decision, and waved at him to sit down on the edge of the bed. "So," she said, finally conceding that she wasn't dreaming, for now, and that she might as well hear what he had to say. "Talk. What do you mean, you need my help?"

He looked at her through those eyes, so familiar, and yet so different to the ones she remembered; there was no cruelty, no mockery, only truth and honesty and…trustworthiness. She had resisted the Goblin King's glamouries, the infatuation and attraction charms because she had sensed they were not real, and because at fifteen she had been a little too innocent for the full effect. But Aethan's glamourie was far more subtle, far more insidious – and she had no defence against it, simply because she preferred honesty, could not abide deception, and hated any kind of games. She wanted to believe that such a direct, honest man was speaking truth – and therefore, gave him power over her with her belief.

He looked her right in the eyes, and began. "Ten years ago, you defeated Jareth, the Goblin King…"

She shook her head. "No, that wasn't real. That was a dream, a hallucination – it can't have been real…"

He only looked at her. "My dear Sarah, I'm afraid it was very real." He lowered his eyes, and looked away, then back to her, sorrowfully, it seemed. "You defeated him, and brought peace to the Underground – but only for a time…" A subtle tightening seemed to come over his features, a drawing in of his will, of his resolve. "He has rebuilt his strength, and has come back…" He pinned her with his eyes, those alien eyes, and suddenly she was transfixed again, by the strength of his will. "And only you can stop him…"

************************************************ 

So, tell me what you think. Please. Hopefully things should be a little clearer now. Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. Next one soon, I promise.


	6. Truth, Lies and Deception

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Don't sue me. 

Chapter 6 – Truth, Lies and Deception

Sarah tilted her head, some small part of her sounding a warning, an admonition to be very, very cautious here. "How do I know that you're telling the truth?"

He frowned, his face…offended? "The Fae never lie," he said stiffly, stiffly enough that he convinced her. She remembered reading somewhere that to a Fae, telling a lie was a major faux pas. And besides, she thought as the glamourie entwined around her further, he would never lie to her, as trustworthy, honest and sincere as he was…

He wanted her help against the Goblin King? The man who was the stuff of children's nightmares and old, whispered tales… But when she had met him, he hadn't seemed to be so terrifying. Imposing, surely, but not as evil as the stories painted him. "I don't…" she paused, feeling her way, "I don't understand. Why was everyone so afraid of him? He didn't seem to be…evil…"

"Evil?" He cocked an eyebrow, shook his head. "No, he is not evil in the sense you mean; but he is a…disruptive force, capable of great destruction." He looked into her deep eyes again, all sincerity. "We are all so…" the eyebrow twitched again, "wary of him because he is _different, _because he does not…how do you say it, belong." He spread his hands, trying to explain a concept she had never before encountered. "There is a natural order in the Underground, but the balance is upset, and things are…_changing…_" 

She frowned in incomprehension. Aethan sighed, and seemed to be picking his words carefully. "A thousand years ago, there was order in the Underground – the High King ruled, lesser kings ruled under him, and every being in the land understood his place. And then, Jareth _questioned. _He was not content with what he had, and his ambitions provoked what you humans would call a world war…"

She drew in her breath, remembering the Goblin King's arrogance, his power, easily believing that he could dare to reach so high…Aethan nodded sadly. "You understand, then. I feared that you, too, had fallen under his spell…"

Sarah bit her lip, remembering how close she had been to losing herself completely in him, in his charisma. In the ballroom, looking up into his eyes as he sang to her, she had believed everything he said, would have done _anything _he asked of her. The insidious memories crept up on her, the warmth of his arms, the faint, heady scent of sandalwood…

"Sarah. _Sarah!" _

She blinked, and then shook her head desperately, trying to dismiss the memories, the sensations, and the emotions – all so terrifyingly real. "That is his power, Sarah. He enchants and seduces the unwary, trapping them in his spell, charming them into accepting him until they would do anything for him, even turn against their own flesh and blood."

She was still shuddering, looking to him with trembling, vulnerable eyes, as if he were the only thing who could save her from the memories, from the Goblin King's spell. He held out a hand – a solid hand, solid flesh and blood, and so comforting – and she took it, gripping tightly. 

"He changes things, Sarah," Aethan whispered, his eyes fierce. "Everywhere he goes, he brings change and upheaval to the very fabric of the Underground itself.  The children wished away to him," he paused, "his goblins and his followers – they are all contrary to the ancient, natural order. And if it goes on much longer…I fear for the entire Underground." He shrugged his shoulders, as if banishing ghostly memories, fears and anxieties, finally pinning her with those disconcertingly alien eyes.

"We need you, Sarah. There is no one else…"

She squeezed his hand, because she could feel the sincerity, the passion in him…she couldn't help but sympathise with him, another victim of the Goblin King. But even so…

"I'm sorry, Aethan, truly I am, but…" she trailed off, wondering how to put this gracefully. "But I can't help you."

For the smallest, swiftest moment, she thought she saw something ugly in his eyes. But of course not, she must have been mistaken…

He didn't protest. He didn't ask why. He only looked her in the eye for a long, long time, hiding nothing of his reaction, and then looked away, sighing. For a moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, but then she sighed and tried to explain what she didn't fully understand herself, what she hadn't allowed herself to understand before.

"I can't. When he took Toby," she paused, tried to marshal her thoughts, "it was because I asked him to. Everything that happened that night was a twisted reflection of my expectations, and when the end came, it was like…like it was the fulfilment of a bargain, an agreement we had made. He did nothing that I didn't ask for."

His eyes blazed. "But he would have made Toby into one of his creatures! Surely you know what would have happened if you lost."

She nodded. "I know. But that was part of our agreement – and we both knew the terms of it before we began…" She swallowed, truly sorry at what she had to say. "I'm sorry, Aethan, but it wouldn't be right. Jareth and I had an agreement, and we fulfilled it, both of us honouring the terms – and that was that. I don't think I should interfere in the Underground any further…"

He looked at her with terrible eyes. "But…that makes no sense at all. You're the only one who can help us, you must help us!" His grip tightened almost painfully, and she cried out at the pain. Instantly, he released her, and she brought the hand to her chest, cradling it between her breasts. 

Taking a deep breath, she smiled tremulously despite the pain. "Not everything has to make sense." Her smile died. "I'm sorry, but I can't…" 

She held his gaze once more, and this time watched those clear, completely open eyes finally admitted defeat. He bowed his head, a strangely formal, old-fashioned gesture. "Very well, Sarah…" A rueful smile curved his lips. "But if you should ever change your mind, then call me, and I will come."

And then he vanished, leaving her in the suddenly dark bedroom, alone with the ashes of her illusions and her disbelief.

***************************************** 

Coming back to the real world, Aethan opened his eyes, any sign of the emotion he had so liberally poured out for the mortal girl – Sarah – completely vanished with his return to his true self. Turning his head fractionally, slowly, to counteract the fierce, pounding ache that came from such a reckless expenditure of power, he encountered Huw's curious, expectant gaze. 

Aethan sighed. He was so young, so eager to learn – it brought back painful memories of another young, eager student; a child, this time, with white fair hair and eyes so full of love and faith it was painful to remember…

Jareth. His youngest son, and the best and brightest of them all; unfortunately, he had also been the only one to inherit Aethan's gift for deception and manipulation in full. And that was what had led to Jareth's downfall, to his banishment…

And to his eventual rise as a completely new power, as the Goblin King. 

"Well?" he asked Huw, eyebrow tilted. "You saw?"

Huw nodded. "I saw." He handed Aethan a gold, jewel-encrusted goblet – Gods of Earth and Sky – filled with rich, heady wine that tasted of summer, of grapes and rich earth and cool oaken barrels. Sipping the summer wine, Aethan felt the colour returning to his cheeks, felt the warmth flood through his veins, bolstering the strength in his limbs. Pointedly, he put the goblet down. Any more than a few sips and he would be intoxicated, an over-indulgence he could not abide.

"It seems," he began softly, not looking at Huw, "that she feels she has no responsibility to the Underground, that her involvement with it ended the moment she fulfilled her bargain with the Goblin King."

He turned his head again to look at Huw, who was frowning slightly, two furrows forming between his eyebrows. If he weren't careful, the boy would develop frown lines… "You could have told her her friends were in danger," Huw suggested. "She felt loyalty towards them, did she not?" 

One corner of his mouth kicked up in a small smile. "My dear Huw. That would have been a lie."

Huw met his eyes ironically. "Nevertheless, there were other things you could have said, other lights you could have cast upon the situation…"

"I know," Aethan said seriously, and the small smile tilted ruefully. "But even my hypocrisy has its limits." He stretched, working the kinks out of his back. "She believes now, and that is more than enough – there are others now, with whom she will speak, others who will be far more convincing in their pleas."

Huw nodded reluctantly and rose as his lord did, heading towards the door. But then he hesitated, stopped and looked back. "My lord? What of this fool?" he asked, indicating the baron, sprawled on the day bed, face white and waxy with exhaustion now that his small part had been played. 

Aethan glanced back, his face still, his eyes impassive and utterly indifferent. "Kill him," he said, before turning his back on the whole business and exiting the room.

******************************************* 

Just as suddenly as they had formed, the mists fogging the scrying bowl dissipated, leaving the picture clear again, allowing them to see the mortal woman sitting up in bed, her face thoughtful, her eyes troubled. But this time, there was no longer any trace of his safeguards around her, no trace of the spell that had blinded her to the magic in her own world, no trace of any of his protection about her at all. 

Jareth only sighed. 

There were no signs of his protection. But, faintly, distantly, he could see the residue of another, powerful illusion spell in the room – a very familiar spell, one that he had learned as a very young child, made even more complex so as to work in the Aboveground. That spell, the bewildered look on Sarah's face, and the dissolution of his safeguards – it all spoke of Aethan. In fact it shouted of Aethan – he was sure his father could have erased all traces of his presence, had he been minded to…

The man's arrogance knew no bounds. 

Eyes dark and uncharacteristically hard, he watched the confused woman finally give up the last of her illusions and begin to believe in magic, in the other world beyond mundane normality. 

"The Fae never lie," she murmured softly, the last piece of evidence needed before she finally accepted the truth.

Listening to her, Jareth closed his eyes, the phrase finally convincing him of his father's involvement. He remembered the first time he'd ever heard his father speak it, long, long ago when he had been an innocent child learning statecraft from his father, in the garden of their ancient manor house in the depths of the summer country…

'The Fae never lie, Jareth. But truth is an illusion…" 

Suddenly, he had no more desire to watch over Sarah; not knowing what poison his father had fed her. He knew that she had somehow refused him, else she would be in the Underground already, but it would only be a matter of time now, before she either came back out of a desire to destroy him, or out of curiosity or the sense of wonder which still, despite all her attempts to root it out, underlay the way she saw the world.

One way or another, she would soon be back, and Aethan would send her straight for his jugular…

Before he passed his hand over the water, dismissing the vision, he took the time to wonder just why his father had suddenly decided to focus everything he had on destroying him. 

And then he stopped. 

Stilled, tilting his head as he thought of something he had not taken into account.

Swore.

Hastily dismissed the vision and walked out, ankle length cloak flaring behind him as he hurried up the stairs towards the heart of the castle.

************************************* 

Bran could feel him heading up the stairs, feel his aura flaring with his anger, announcing his presence to everyone within a certain distance sensitive enough to feel it vibrating in their bones. Something must have upset him, if he had lost this much control over his magic and his emotions…

He had known Jareth for nearly a thousand years, stood with him through revolts and rebellions, through invasions and infiltrations, through the good years and the bad and everything in between, and he knew that the only times the King was ever this discomposed were when Lord Aethan was involved in some way. Normally emotionless and indifferent, as true sidhe should be, Jareth had a tendency to become rather volatile whenever his family somehow impacted on his life. 

It happened very rarely, of course, but somehow Bran sensed that this time was different, this time was absolutely crucial – especially when the mortal woman was involved, and they were in the middle of such a delicate, delicate matter already….

He turned the corner, met Jareth at the head of the stairs. The King's eyes were feral, his thin veneer of humanity almost completely stripped away. He saw Bran but didn't stop, headed at an almost run towards the throne room. "Get me the messenger," he called over his shoulder, "and make sure that nothing and no one listens in as we speak."

Bran bowed to the now empty corridor, his eyes grave and devoid of any amusement he might have derived from the situation, and then headed off to do his Lord's bidding.

***************************************** 

Goblins scrambled and tumbled and fought on the stone floor of the throne room, squabbling over the chickens that somehow seemed to be ever-present, and making the hideous din and racket that was often the first impression many fae diplomats and ambassadors ever had of the Goblin Kingdom. Jareth allowed this practice because more often than not it suited his purposes, but sometimes, some things were too important to be mocked or made light of. 

They could feel his anger chilling the air, and all sense of fun and play deserted them; it was very, very rare to feel their overlord's wrath, so rare that when they did feel it, they took it seriously – or as seriously as goblins could take anything. With one curt order – "Out! All of you!" – they streamed out of the room, almost running, and left all of their mess and clutter behind in their haste to be elsewhere. With one negligent wave of his hand, he produced a crystal, broke it in his clenched fist, and watched the mess disappear – and then sat down in his throne, feeling Bran's shields and wards go up outside the room, ensuring there would be no eavesdroppers, magical or otherwise, on this meeting.

When Bran opened the door, allowing the messenger to enter, Jareth was seated upright – not sprawling – on his throne, the very picture of a real king, not a dandified dilettante, not a shabby, backward ruler who had gone native and too closely resembled his subjects. He would not have appreciated the comparison to his father, but the messenger could not help but notice it. He had heard many things of the Goblin King, most of them ambiguous and contradictory, but the one thing that most accounts agreed upon was that he was, indeed, his father's son.

For his part, Jareth looked at the man who had come to him two months ago with hard, suspicious eyes. This was a very delicate, potentially explosive matter, and he remembered all too well the last time he had played for such high stakes… He wasn't at all sure that he wanted to become involved in this, but then again, he didn't have much choice if he wanted to break the deadlock that had strangled the Underground for centuries.

The messenger was just a man, a normal man, of the type that could be seen anywhere in the Underground, either in the lands of Summer or Winter, but what made him more than a mere man was the brooch he wore on his cloak, a cheap copper brooch that, underneath the disguising spell, was formed in the shape of a running stag, the personal symbol of the High King…

His voice cold, hard and authoritative, Jareth spoke. "We have been betrayed. He knows…"

*********************************************

I would like to acknowledge "Be So Cruel" by Indy Croft, which was where I first got the idea of somebody deliberately turning Sarah against Jareth, in a different context to this, of course. 

Also, many thanks to everyone who has reviewed; I greatly appreciate it.


	7. Tunnel Vision

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Don't sue me.

Chapter 7

They had first approached him nearly a century after the end of the Wars, after the treaty that had effectively crippled the High King's power. At that time, he'd only just found his feet as the Goblin King, as an individual, independent sovereign of a new land; his own power had been shaky enough, and he'd had no wish to try his hand at an intrigue that would put him in direct opposition to Aethan. Some of the old awe, the old reverence had still remained…

As much as he'd opposed the curtailing of the High King's Writ, he was not such an avid champion that he would go up against his father to support it, not so soon after the failure that had caused his exile. Love, respect, fear, hatred…

It was as if his feelings for his father had defined his whole life. 

But he did not fear Aethan anymore. He had been completely independent and autonomous for centuries now; he was older, more powerful, and perhaps even a little wiser… And if he thought it necessary to conspire with the High King, then he would do so, in the full knowledge that his father would do everything to stop him. 

He had seen the effect the rigid divisions between the two major blocs had on the Underground, had seen the gradual change from thinking of 'Fae' as a whole to us and them, light and shadow, Seelie and Unseelie. It was a…disillusionment, in some ways, and it tainted the Underground, tainting the purity and the somehow magical quality that had so captivated mortals who had visited before the Great Wars. Once, long ago, the sun had been brighter, the sky clearer, the air clearer and purer – or so it seemed to Jareth, who was nearing his thousandth year; perhaps it might be the nostalgia for youth, for golden summers long past…

And perhaps not. He was not the only one dissatisfied with the current situation – when they approached him again this time, it had been with considerably more respect, and willingness to include him in their counsels. Lower level Fae Lords, both Seelie and Unseelie, who looked to gain some sort of power and influence in the new status quo they had been promised would come about; High Lords who had been promised the same thing but on a much larger scale, or who could remember the old days and wished to see them return, or who simply had a good reason to bring Cormack Ruagh or the Unseelie King down. And the common people of the Underground, with their long memories, had always supported the High King's Writ; most of them would like to see it back so that things could return to their old, natural Order – the legends of the Underground were based on and around the idea of the High King balancing and centring the rest of the land, not two relatively modern and artificial divisions tearing the Underground apart. 

And Jareth? Perhaps Jareth had also absorbed too many of those legends, of those ideals in his youth… He had no desire for any kind of check on his power, but he knew that the Underground needed a supreme ruler, needed someone to balance all the conflicting interests and players so that they could all coexist in relative harmony. Aethan knew that, knew the Underground could not exist in anarchy, but he was seeking to create his own King as supreme ruler, without the stipulations that had crippled the High King. 

Jareth had nothing against Cormack Ruagh – he'd known the man all his life, knew him for a just and balanced ruler. But he was not the High King. He had not been anointed and crowned in the Heart of the Underground, he had not been decreed High King before all the Gods…logically, rationally, Jareth knew that Dante Andenais was just another Fae, a full-blooded sidhe about fifty years older than Jareth, who had not been strong enough to hold on to his power in the face of Aethan's scheming and manipulation. But there was another part of him, another facet of his nature that insisted on seeing him as the Ard Righ…

Perhaps that was why he was taking the risk of going up against his father to bring back the power of the High King. Not because he wanted any extra power, or influence – although he wasn't going to say that he didn't – or because he relished the thought of besting his father in something major, something monumental. Because, like the commoners, he believed in the High King's Writ.

Oddly enough, he had never once thought of bringing his father down. In fact, had anyone suggested it, he would have opposed the notion vehemently, something deep within him recoiling from the very thought. But now that his father was actively working against him, trying in earnest to break him, it seemed that he would have to take that final, irrevocable step…

He would not jeopardise this plan, would do everything he could to see it fulfilled, no matter who or what stood in his way.

******************************************************* 

Since the strange Fae – Aethan's – visit, Sarah's wilful blindness had somehow dissolved, everything that had concealed the magic of the world around her had somehow, suddenly disappeared. It was as if someone had drawn aside a gossamer veil, allowing her to see things that had always been there, but that she had been unable or unwilling to see. There were fairies in the little garden of pot plants she cultivated out on the terrace, and little gnomes and small folk scattered throughout the streets – although, to be sure, not very many, in the steel and concrete world of New York City. Those that did live here seemed…pale, a little changed from the ones she had seen when she returned to her small town, childhood home.

Her eyes opened to a whole new world, she had been very, very tempted to rush in and wallow in the magic of it; caution hard won ten years ago made her tread warily, to wonder just why this new world had been opened to her, and whether it had anything at all to do with _him._ If everything Aethan said was true…and that was another thing to be cautious about. Why were Fae Lords suddenly popping up in her bedroom, trying to recruit her to bring down the Goblin King? Why had Aethan looked so much like him? There was definitely something off there, now that she had had time to think about it…

Talking to the small folk had given her a clearer picture of the situation. 

Aethan was Jareth's father – that explained the uncanny resemblance. Jareth's ambitions had torn the Underground apart, long ago – she could well imagine it, and they reassured her that Aethan had been speaking the truth. He had caused the second Great War. Yes, the Goblin King took children; everyone knew it – turning them into goblins? Well, they couldn't know for sure about that, but certainly the children were never seen again…

The small folk, she had found, were terrible gossips. But as well as these Lesser Fae, she had also caught glimpses of others – faces passed on the street, with a hint of an alien cast to their features, with eyes too wild, with too much power vibrating off them to be completely human, who watched her with that terrifying indifference she remembered all too well. It seemed the Fae were not entirely restricted to the Underground, but were free to roam Aboveground if they so wished, if they took care to avoid notice or any trouble. Or if they had been exiled…

That was another thing the small folk had told her, recounting in scandalised accents – the Goblin Kingdom was the refuge of the most notorious criminals and exiles of the Underground; all the worst villains, those who had been justly exiled from their homelands, were drawn to the safety _he _offered them, no doubt for his own nefarious purposes. That news had made her think – made her remember one of the very first lessons she had learned from her experience, that things are not always as they seemed to be. Had Hoggle, and Ludo, and Sir Didymus been counted among these exiles? And if so, did that mean that not all of the exiles were dangerous criminals, or that the dangerous criminals were not as dangerous as the small folk were trying so hard to make out to her…she could not believe that their friendship had been a lie. It had been too strong; too true for that – so what implications did that say about everything that the small folk were telling her?

She didn't want to think too much on the Goblin King, but it seemed as though suddenly everything was conspiring to keep him in her thoughts, to keep her focus fixed on him, on the Labyrinth, and what Aethan had told her with such sincerity, with such desperation. She did not doubt that his desire to defeat the Goblin King was genuine, but she suspected that everything she had heard and seen since his visit had been…designed, she supposed, to persuade her to help. 

She was no longer naïve and gullible. She had learned her lesson, learned to think before rushing in, to read between the lines of actions and words, and to consider everything objectively and very, very carefully before she committed herself. She knew all too well the consequences of dramatic impetuosity – and that was why she was thinking very carefully about everything Aethan had said, and had not said, and wondering just why she had accepted his presence so easily, had believed everything he said, and had never, ever doubted his motives or his trustworthiness. With the clarity of hindsight and time, she found that very, very suspicious.

But all her sensible caution availed her nothing, because events outpaced the time she should have had to consider. As she conversed with pixies and fairies, hiding the wonder in her heart behind scepticism and cool suspicion, as she searched every strange face she saw on the street, seeking strange auras, feral eyes and… _a rich, lightly accented voice, eyes glinting in amusement, mockery and a reluctant admiration… _affairs of which she had no knowledge would soon embroil her once more in the deception, in the lies, in the games and hypocrisy that she hated above all else.

Because while she was lost in the newfound wonder of her new sight, she had not been paying attention to Toby…

************************************ 

He looked down at the child – no more than ten years old – who had been so valued that his sister denied the Goblin King's charms, refused his advances, and refused to believe in the silken webs he was so skilful at weaving…

He wondered what it would be like, to have someone willing to protect him like that. 

The boy – was his name Toby? – looked nothing at all like his half-sister, with his golden curls and huge blue eyes, but there was one thing that they shared, one thing besides blood in which they were alike. Toby's aura, even more so than the woman's, was saturated with the touch and taste of the Underground, with magic and enchantment – perhaps it had been his extreme youth, at the time of his visit, and the prolonged exposure to Jareth's own presence and aura – so much so that he seemed to burn as brightly as any fae child. 

So much so that no wards – not even Jareth's – could ever possibly have hidden him and his light, and no deceptions and illusions could ever have masked his sight, masked his perception of the hidden world around him. The boy had been so trusting, so accepting of the strange people and creatures who had befriended him – it had been an easy thing to gain his consent to a second trip Underground, his one condition being that he would not be turned into a goblin.

He had been too young, too trusting, too _loved_, to even consider any wider consequences and implications.

Let Aethan spend his time focusing almost exclusively on his son, on Jareth's actions and intrigues; let Jareth waste his time trying to outwit his father and bring back a defunct, empty High Kingship. While they focused on each other and on the mortal woman, he would snatch the prize from under their very noses…

The woman Sarah understood Jareth. This boy understood _the Underground…_

*********************************************** 

Hmmm… yes, I have once again introduced another player, another factor into the Game. Don't blame me, it's my muse's fault - it takes much of the blame for the fact that I just can't seem to write simple, uninvolved, straightforward fics. 

So please, tell me what you think – suggestions, comments, flattery or even constructive criticism will be welcomed equally. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed before.


	8. Bargains with the Devil

A/N – My apologies about the delay in getting this out. Real life interfered, but I am now on holidays.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Don't sue me. 

Chapter 8 – Bargains with the Devil

The sound of the phone ringing jerked Sarah out of a sound sleep, interrupting a particularly vivid dream of the Labyrinth she had once run – yes, she admitted it now – and the people she had met in the process. Gruff, surly Hoggle, great-hearted Ludo, gallant Sir Didymus – companions on her quest – and the enigmatic, utterly fascinating Goblin King, the villain of the piece, the ambiguous figure who had become, in her mind, irrevocably entwined with magic, and wonder, and enchantment…

And with peaches. 

She thought that she had trained herself not to dream about that time or about him anymore. But ever since Aethan's visit, since she had begun chatting and gossiping with the small folk, since she had come to accept that yes, the Underground did exist, and yes, so did Jareth, the dreams had been returning. And they had gotten more and more vivid, more and more…entrancing…

So while she was a little disappointed that she had been woken up early by the phone, she was not so blasé about what was happening to her that she wasn't a little relieved to have the decision taken out of her own hands…

Her stepmother's frantic voice jerked her out of her pleasant reverie, brought her to full awareness with a horrible shock. 

"Toby's gone?" she whispered, horrified. "Are you sure?" 

"We've searched everywhere," Karen said, her voice tight and thin with suppressed tension. "There's no trace of him at all." Her breath sobbed audibly, even over the phone. "He's gone…"

Sarah froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins as she remembered another night, when she had searched desperately for Toby… Karen continued speaking, keeping her fears at bay by focusing on the simple task of marshalling her thoughts. "His things are still in his room, and there are no signs of a struggle – he didn't run away, and the police say he probably wasn't kidnapped, but he's just _gone, _Sarah…" Her voice rose alarmingly, and Sarah's fears rose with her. Ever since that night had forced her to realise just what was important in her life, she had loved Toby with all the fierce strength of a protective older sister, especially since she knew just how close she had come to losing him forever. The thought of him gone, taken away once more was unthinkable…

But she forced herself to calm down, because nothing would be served by either of them becoming hysterical. They could do nothing to help Toby if they panicked; they needed to think coolly, logically, and rationally. There was nothing at all to indicate that Toby was taken away by goblins, or by any other type of magical creature – nothing except instinct, and instinct was not enough when it was Toby's life in the balance. She could not act recklessly and impetuously when the stakes were so high that there was absolutely no room for error. 

She would find him. And then she would get him back. And then she would make sure that nothing like this ever, ever happened to their family again. 

********************************************** 

Every time a mortal crossed over the barrier that separated the Aboveground to the Underground, certain alarms were tripped, and the expenditure of power necessary to effect the transition was strong enough – and recognisable enough – that any Fae with enough sensitivity and familiarity with the magic could sense it, could identify the timing, and even the general location of the crossing.

Aethan certainly had the necessary sensitivity to the magic of the Barrier, had passed it on in full measure to his son, who had far more power in this area than he – and far more familiarity and experience. When Jareth had established his own Kingdom and declared his Exiles safe, free from punishment, prejudice and extradition, the remaining Kings of the Fae had declared that if he took in all the exiles of the Underground, then he must also take in the exiles of the Aboveground. 

Unlike the Exiles of the Underground, those of the Aboveground had a chance to go back – if, and only if, someone cared strongly enough about them to play Jareth's mental games and run the Labyrinth, loved them enough that they would put the child first and choose them over their own dreams. In all the centuries that Jareth had been forced to play this game, there had only been one girl who not only loved her brother enough, but who could also puzzle her way through Jareth's mental maze.

Only one child reclaimed, in nearly a thousand years. No wonder Jareth was so determined to find a way to end this punishment, so determined that he would bring the High King's Writ back into real power, re-establish it as the highest court of judgment in the Underground to appeal against the ruling. 

Aethan had grown used to the feel of Jareth bringing children back to the Goblin Kingdom, but he did not think that this latest crossing had been Jareth's doing – it had not felt like his magic, and nor had it come from the West… It was not unusual for denizens of the Underground to spend some time Aboveground in their youth, but it was almost unheard of for someone other than the Goblin King to bring a mortal back to the Underground. But he knew what he had just felt, recognised the unmistakable feel…

Had someone else taken Sarah? Her story was well known in the Underground. But he would have sworn that no one else other than he and Jareth had known her location…

A twist of his fingers and a glittering crystal appeared – there was no one around to see him indulging in such theatrics – and no, there was Sarah, looking strangely frantic, but with fierce determination in every line of her body. She was in one of those metal contraptions that the mortals used for transportation – Huw was fascinated by the things they developed to help them survive without magic – and was heading somewhere at great speed, struggling not to panic. A small frown line formed between his brows as he wondered just what had caused her such fear. Could it have anything to do with the mortal who had just been brought over?

************************************************ 

In the Castle beyond the Goblin City, there was a high tower with four windows facing in all directions. From these windows, anyone seated within, on the ledge, could overlook the whole of the City, of the Labyrinth, and of the surrounding fields and lands that made up the Goblin Kingdom. It was one of Jareth's favourite spots, and he loved to sit there and watch the sunset – the denizens of the City were used to seeing their King lounging close to the edge, enjoying the last of the light and overseeing his Kingdom…

Today he sat in the same spot looking outwards, completely at ease so high above the ground, while the High King's emissary paced the room behind him, looking worriedly at the Goblin King's back. Jareth knew the effect his unconcern had on the man, who had little head for heights – Bran was a master at finding out these little things – and so often held audiences here, in the highest room of the whole Castle. If he fell, he could change form and fly down. But if the other man fell, well, that was a different story altogether…

Listening to the emissary's words with no more than half an ear, he closed his eyes and relaxed even further, the warmth of the sun and the whispering wind lulling him close to sleep, the contented song of the Labyrinth and his whole Kingdom assuring him that all was well, all was as it should be in the world. 

And then he felt the disturbance, felt the pulse and throb of power, felt the barrier open and the unmistakable feel of a mortal crossing over. His eyes snapped open, the sudden jolt of adrenaline pumping through his whole body, causing him to jerk upright and almost fall out of the window – he would have fallen out, had not the emissary rushed forward and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back into the room so that he landed in a heap on the floor. Shocked by the temerity of the man – he was sidhe: this fool, this man had dared touch him? – Jareth coiled round and almost – almost – struck out at him, stopping his retaliatory blow at the last second, just before he laid violent hands on an accredited emissary of the High King. They stared at each other, the man's wide tawny eyes staring into mismatched, glittering eyes that had lost all pretence of humanity and were now completely alien, his lips drawn back over white, vicious teeth…

And then Jareth blinked, and the alien aura vanished. He picked himself up off the floor, dusted himself off, and held out a hand to the emissary – a wordless peace offering, and perhaps even an acknowledgement of what the other had tried to do, when he had physically jerked him back into the room. Still wide eyed, the emissary accepted the offer, allowed the King to help him back to his feet. 

"What…" he stopped, drew another breath, "what happened? Why did you lose your balance?"

The Goblin King tilted his head, raised a brow. "You didn't feel it?" he asked, wondering that anyone could have missed it. It had hardly been subtle…

The emissary shook his head. "No. I didn't feel anything…" He looked up in wary curiosity. "What was it?"

Jareth only looked at him, into him, his unblinking gaze eerily reminiscent of his avian counterpart, searching for something that only he could see. And then he shook his head. "It is of no consequence." But even as his words dismissed the matter out of hand, declaring it closed, his gaze unfocused, slid away, turned towards the window and looked out into the distance, a small frown forming between his brows…

******************************************** 

Toby was gone. 

Sarah slumped down on the steps of the house she had grown up in, and put her head in her hands, momentarily giving in to despair. Her brother was gone, and there was no way – no way at all – that they could find out where he went, or why, or who took him, if he was taken at all. The police had no leads, no clues, no indications of anything other than the stark fact of his absence, and no one had seen anything strange or sinister or in any way out of the ordinary. 

He had simply...vanished. There was no other logical, rational explanation for it. But in her heart, Sarah knew – he had been taken back _there – _back to the Underground. There was no evidence to support this, no facts or cold hard proof, but she knew. She _knew. _

Sitting there, shivering and hugging herself, the knowledge filled her with a jittery, restless energy – she could not sit still anymore, not when Toby had been kidnapped, not when there was no one else to go after him and save him. Only her – only Sarah, once more running headlong into dangers untold and hardships unnumbered to save her baby brother… Driven by worry and grief and a sense of impending doom she could not name or even rationalise, she drew herself up and rushed off the porch, heading towards the park where she had acted out so many of her childhood and adolescent fantasies, clad in her white mediaeval dress and beribboned wreath of flowers.

Once again, as it had so long ago, it began to rain, the moisture bringing out the clean, somehow wholesome scents of moist earth and newly cut grass – triggering memories of everything that she loved about this sleepy little town, of everything that she had left behind when she grew up, abandoned childhood dreams and embraced instead ambition and reality. Remembering the past recalled the dreams she had once had, the fantasies she had once believed in so strongly, because they had always been so much better than cold hard reality. She had always believed that there were fairies and magical folk in the park, but perhaps it had not been immature fantasy; perhaps it had been the simple truth that she had instinctively recognised but had not had the ability to see with her own eyes. Perhaps there were fairies in the park just as there were fairies in New York – and if so, perhaps they could help her.

Arriving at the park she looked around with adult eyes, but eyes that had been opened to the magic in the world – she saw the old familiar environs, somehow smaller than it had always seemed in her memory, but she also saw the shifting faces of sprites and elementals, and the stunning, sensual, somehow alien woman who leaned against the bridge, trailing her hand in the water and watching Sarah through feral eyes. She drew in a gasping breath of relief and started forward, but stopped when the woman smiled at her, and purred, her voice chiming and melodic, "Hello, sweet Sarah…"

She had wings. Big, gossamer, shimmering wings that trailed down behind her, but Sarah remembered the very first lesson Hoggle had ever taught her – fairies may look beautiful, but they bit. "Hello," she replied, tentatively. 

The woman's smile was beautiful, radiant – but somehow false. "Where do you go in such a hurry, sweet Sarah?"

Sarah swallowed, faced down the amusement in the woman's alien eyes. She may be disturbing, but she had nothing on the Goblin King… "I'm looking for my brother," she said, bluntly, truthfully. She was not equipped for sophisticated verbal fencing – not today. 

The woman raised a brow. "Oh?" she asked coyly. "Have you lost him, then?" She laughed, a silver trill of pure malice. "Or have you wished him away again?"

Sarah stilled. "How do you know about that?"

The woman laughed again, more jaggedly this time, the perfection of her beauty slipping, showing something very different underneath. "Oh, sweet Sarah, everyone knows about that little episode, of how you were so loyal to your formerly unwanted brother, so loyal that you shattered and destroyed your most cherished, romantic dreams…"

Sarah flushed, painfully embarrassed as she remembered the ball, and the dress, and the way the Goblin King had sung such glorious honeyed words of perfect love and adoration to such a wide eyed, wondering innocent…

"Oh, I know about that, Sarah." Her features were cold, utterly perfect, but somehow no longer beautiful, in their iciness. "For years I watched you play your little games, watched you daydream and fantasise about magical adventures. Your immaturity was so touching, in a way, so precious – and then you encountered the real thing, the reality behind the fairy tale, and I laughed…"

Sarah paled at this malevolent onslaught, at the thought that at the times when she had thought herself most private, she had been constantly watched… But the woman continued. "And even then, even when confronted with the truth of magic, of fantasy, of adventure, you still spun your dreams and illusions, _and he indulged you. _He offered you everything he had, everything that he had never, ever offered to anyone else, and you, the martyred, long suffering heroine, threw it all back in his face. You have no idea what you rejected, do you?" Her face twisted, her eyes burned, and Sarah took an instinctive step back. "It should have been mine!" The woman shouted. "_He_ should have been mine! But instead he chose _you…_" The hatred was plain in her voice, and Sarah backed up even further, horrified by what the woman had turned into.

But whatever else she was, Sarah was no coward, and she refused to be intimidated. "I'm looking for my brother," she said again, evenly, steadily. "I want to know where he is, and who took him."

The madness faded from the woman's eyes – Sarah was sure that she had simply hidden it, just as deliberately as she had allowed it to surface. Once again, she laughed, melodious and joyous. "One question, sweet Sarah – one question is all that I will grant you, and that for a price."

Sarah eyed her cautiously, wary of making open-ended bargains with people who took such things seriously. "What price are you asking?"

The woman put a hand over her heart and managed to look offended. "Nothing too onerous, sweet Sarah. A small favour, nothing more, nothing less, and at a time of my choosing."

Sarah thought of arguing, but the woman forestalled her, shaking her finger back and forth. "Now, now Sarah, you cannot afford to bargain, can you? I'm sure you're in a desperate hurry…"

Scowling, she knew that she had no other choice. "Alright," she grated out. "Where is Toby?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Do you swear it?"

"Yes I swear it," Sarah hissed impatiently. "In God's name, I swear it. Now where in the Underground is Toby?"

The woman smiled, a quintessentially feline smile, self-satisfied and smug. "Your brother," she said, purring, "has been taken Underground. To Winter's stronghold." She laughed once again, held up a hand in a final salute - "_Remember your vow, sweet Sarah…" – _before she slowly became transparent, and then vanished completely. 

Sarah was left alone in the park, with only two clues to show her the way to her brother. 

_Winter's stronghold, in the Underground. _

Where the hell was that, and how the hell did she get there?

And then she remembered… Taking a deep, bracing breath, she let it out and, before she could talk herself out of it, breathed the fateful words she had sworn she would never, ever even think of, let alone speak. _"I wish,"_ she whispered, _"I wish that Aethan would come and take me away, right now…"_

******************************************** 

Feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed before. 


	9. Short Interlude and Character List

A/N – It's been five months since I updated this? I'm very sorry, but I wanted to get Footprints out of the way. Now that it's finished, I can concentrate on other stories. This chapter is only short, but I thought that any update would be better than nothing at all.

To make up for the short chapter, I have included a list of characters at the end. Hopefully it will be of some use.

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue me.

Chapter 9

_"I wish that Aethan would come and take me away, right now!"_

The words cut like iron through Jareth's mind, jagged and vicious, weakening and demoralising, just as, no doubt, his lord father had intended. Gods _damn_ her, that she would believe Aethan's smooth lies over everything that Jareth had ever offered her…

Suddenly, the pain was more than just mental – he looked down at his hand, clenched and white-knuckled, blood welling up where his fingernails had bit into his palm. Quite deliberately, he made himself relax his grip, loosen the tension in his body and in his mind, and slowly, incrementally, rein in the temper that was such a curse, even now. 

Far off in the distance he felt the unmistakable signs of a powerful Fae crossing over, tracked with his eyes – although he could not possibly see it – the way his father took, the way he would return, with _her. _

He could not resist the temptation of a crystal, but before he could look inside, a messenger tapped tentatively on his door, bowing, saying that Lord Bran wished him to see something, down near the castle gates. Banishing the crystal – and all that it represented – before his good sense could be overcome, he left his brooding behind and went out to see what had Bran so troubled.

************************ 

Bran watched him come down the stairs, wondering at his skill in dissemblance; the girl's words had echoed throughout the whole kingdom, free for all to hear, and yet not a single hint of displeasure showed on the King's face. One would think, watching him, that he was not in the least put out about the girl's choice of protectors -  

Bran sighed. Perhaps that was not the most appropriate word. To be fair, the girl was not conversant with all the customs of the Underground, or what interpretations would arise when she so boldly Called upon Aethan…

"What's going on, Bran?" Jareth demanded impatiently. Ignoring his testiness because he understood the cause, Bran took no offence, merely stepping aside to let Jareth see something that should be self-evident.

There was a creature cowering on the ground, flinching in fear from the spears of the two guards – sidhe Exiles, not Goblins – standing over it; when Jareth came into view it lifted its head pathetically, whimpering fearfully. But when he showed no signs of giving in to compassion, the pathetic plea in its eyes turned to feral hatred, all the fear morphed into rage, and it spat poisonously before a spear butt caught it in the gut, sending it back, writhing and hissing, to the ground. 

Languidly, the King lifted a hand to stop the guards from chastising it further and examined it with what seemed to be casual disinterest. Contrary to Aboveground legend, denizens of the Unseelie were not hideously twisted and misshapen, but nor were they fair to look on, according to the standards of the Seelie. They possessed a beauty all of their own. However, faced with the shining glory of Jareth, Bran and two other sidhe, the creature seemed ugly, and was all too aware of it.

"A hag," Jareth said flatly. "I have not seen one in centuries…"

"Certainly not so far south of Winter," Bran added, eyeing Jareth askance. He knew that tone of voice, and it boded absolutely no good…

Jareth stared down for a few moments at the captured hag. It – she? – glared sullenly back, jealous of his light and beauty. "Who sent you," he finally began, "and for what reason?"

No answer. 

A short, peremptory gesture, and the guards moved in; a few blows, a few kicks, and a few well placed fists later, and the hag was far more cooperative. Again, the quiet, implacable question came. "Who sent you, and for what reason?"

Still no answer, but the defiance was strained, now. 

The casual, detached mask hardened, the eyes glittered cruelly, and the two guards took a few cautious steps back from their own Lord. A fluid gesture, a clenched fist, and crystal shards rained down upon the wretched hag, and it _screamed…_

Bran remained carefully – rigidly – impassive, but Jareth watched avidly, enjoying the legitimate outlet for an earlier rage. Eventually, the screaming stopped, and the hag – babbling with relief and eagerness to please – told him everything he wanted to know, and a great deal more besides.

When he was finally finished, the hag crawled over to Jareth's feet and rained kisses on his boots, whimpering and pleading brokenly. Brushing it off, he turned and headed back into the castle, leaving Bran to deal with the leftover mess. 

***************************

Sarah stood at the entrance to Aethan's country estate in the heart of the Summer Country and stared in awe at the garden, a vivid tumble of colour running riot, overflowing with a mixture of heavy, intoxicating scents that hung in the air almost tangibly. The house itself was small, cosy, and quaint – it was every fantasy she'd ever had about an English cottage, but even more beautiful and magical than she could have imagined.

Aethan himself had preceded her through the gate, and when he turned back to see what had distracted her, he was struck by the picture she made, standing there with such innocent, delighted eyes. Thousands of years ago, another woman had stood where she did, with just such an expression on her face, and he had known that he would never love another as he had loved her…

For the first time he could see what Jareth saw in this mortal woman. 

"Please," he said, intruding as gently as he could on her wonder, "come inside and tell me why you have summoned me."

The joy in her eyes was replaced with scepticism, but she stepped over the threshold willingly enough. "My brother has been taken," she said bluntly. "I want him back." There was iron-hard determination in her voice, and in her stance. He could not help but admire it.

Nevertheless, his sense of humour came to the fore. "I assure you, I did not take him." 

She scowled impatiently, dismissing his flippancy. "I know that. But you can help me find him."

"You know where he is?" She seemed so very certain that it piqued his curiosity. How had she found out? What price had she paid for such knowledge?

"Yes," Sarah said, frowning. "It is a place called Winter's Stronghold."

_Winter's Stronghold? Of course…! _

She saw it – saw the split second of surprise and realisation, instantly covered over. Aethan was not sure that he quite liked knowing she could read him so easily.  

"You know where it is?" she asked, a mixture of relief and curiosity in her voice.

He sighed. "Yes, I know it." 

He watched the resolve form in her eyes, but before he said anything further – and before she could voice the inevitable request – he moved further into the house, into an elegant sitting room. Pulling on a cord, he sat down and invited her to do the same, easy, elegant grace in every movement he made. They settled into their chairs, Aethan keeping the conversation to small talk, now, ignoring the signs of Sarah's frustration. 

The servants having been given a day off, it was left to Huw to come in with the tea tray, and if he resented the role Aethan's need for discretion forced him to play, he showed no sign of it. Dispensing cups of tea with all the gracious expertise of long practice, he took one of his own and settled into a chair to join the discussion, just as he had been ordered to. 

Sarah scowled at Huw as Aethan introduced him, but was oddly reassured by his almost-human appearance, soothed by the small sign of normality in this strange land. 

"Huw," Aethan drawled dryly, "this is the Lady Sarah. Her brother has been taken and she has come to me for assistance." 

Huw raised a brow, took a polite sip of tea. "Surely we have no influence in the Goblin Kingdom…"

"It was not _him_," Sarah interjected tautly. "She said he was taken to a place called Winter's Stronghold."

There was a slight pause, and then Huw – blithely dismissing the revelation of Unseelie involvement in this affair – seized on a very interesting point. "She?"

Sarah explained. 

Aethan closed his eyes and rubbed wearily at the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the onset of a headache. 

*********************** 

The boy was quiet, now, his eyes huge in his face – he had grown up; of course he would not so trusting as he would have been as a babe, ten years ago. Nevertheless, the power was there, subdued and submerged by the boy's fear. He could feel it, like warmth beneath his skin, pulsing weakly with every rapid beat of the boy's heart…

"Hello, Toby," he said. "Welcome to Winter."

********************* 

A/N – Character list:

SARAH and TOBY – hopefully we all know who they are.

JARETH – Goblin King; former youngest and best-beloved son (disowned) of Aethan.

BRAN – Jareth's right hand and second in command. 

OWEN and CAEDE – brothers; members of the Exiles – renegades and pariahs to whom Jareth gives asylum in return for allegiance.

**** 

AETHAN – the shadowy main counsellor of Cormack Ruagh, the King of the Seelie. Father of Jareth.

HUW – Aethan's aide.

A Nameless Sidhe Baron – useful to Aethan's plans, eliminated when no longer needed.

CORMACK RUAGH – the King of the Seelie, King of Summer. 

**** 

The Messenger – an emissary of the High King. 

The High King – Dante Andenais, the High King of the Underground. A figurehead, and effectively powerless – for now.

**** 

The Anonymous Kidnapper – a third player, an ambitious denizen of Winter, of the Unseelie. 

**** 

The Winged Lady of the Bridge – a wild card. 


	10. Pawns

A/N – This chapter has undergone several transformations over the last few months. One of my reviewers suggested that I get to the 'meat and potatoes' – well, I have tried, and this is the result. I do hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer – I don't Sarah, Jareth or Toby. All the others are mine.

* * *

Chapter 10 – Pawns

* * *

The white palace had been the greatest centre of power in the Underground, once, before the Wars, before the machinations of cunning, ambitious rival counsellors had rendered it all but obsolete. Oh, lip service was paid, of course – but the stronghold of the High King, the great High Seat was now no more than a memory of days long gone, of High Kings long dead and of influence long since lost.

Dante Andenais, scion of a long line of great and powerful High Kings, was all too aware of the contrast of his own present situation. He lived here, with all the pomp and ceremony of his ancestors, but none of their power or strength. This white palace was a mausoleum, a cage surrounding and imprisoning him, strangling him with the reminder of everything that he wasn't – he wasn't strong and sure and confident, or cunning and ruthless and resourceful.

He wasn't a player: he was a pawn.

He'd been so young when he'd been marginalised, rendered completely and utterly impotent. Not even twenty years on the throne – and all of those years spent sheltered against the chaos of the greatest war the Underground had ever seen – he'd not been experienced enough to stand against Lord Aethan and his Unseelie counterpart Lord Vane combined. And they had stood together then, for perhaps the first and last time in their lives.

Perhaps he should feel honoured.

But he didn't feel honoured; if he felt anything at all, now, it was anger. Finally, after all the long centuries, he felt the anger that should have roused him, the determination that should have strengthened his spine and his heart...

Finally, he had enough confidence in himself to take back what should have been his by right. There would be no more uncertainties, no more hesitation, no more dreaming of days past. He would be the High King in fact, as well as in name...

All his plans were in place, and all he needed was a spark, a catalyst.

* * *

Toby watched the dark man warily, aware of every shift of his expression and body language, searching for clues that might possibly give him some indication of what he meant to do. But there was very little; the man was controlled in a way he had never encountered before. Child of human parents and a human world, Toby could not know of the inhuman, almost feline patience and that comes only over centuries of life; the closest he had ever come to something similar was a dim, half-remembered dream of his childhood, of a mercurial, white-fair man whose eyes had been – despite the laughter and the singing – watchful, and somehow cruel.

But of course it had only been a dream – or so he had thought, before he had given in to his desire to know more and had allowed the fairies to take him away.

Of course, he knew now that it had been a mistake. Even if the singing man had been real, he had not sent the fairies – the dark man had. And the dark man had brought him back here, to this place he called Winter, and was watching him – just sitting there, watching him – as if he had never seen a boy before. He seemed almost fascinated, and it was beginning to be a little scary...

But Toby was made of sterner stuff than most young boys of his age. Perhaps it was his sister's influence, perhaps it was his own nature, or perhaps it was some legacy of those hazy hours on the Goblin King's knee, but a deep core of raw, unformed strength lay hidden behind his angelic curls and wide blue eyes. Unconsciously, in reaction to that unblinking, predatory stare, he clenched his fists and raised his chin.

"Who are you?" he asked, his young voice tight and suspicious. His heart was beating rapidly, but he only clenched his fists tighter, until his nails dug into his palms, and tried again. "What do you want?"

But the dark man only smiled.

* * *

Vane found himself admiring the boy's courage. He did not have much experience with human children, but he suspected that most of them would not be as daring as this young Toby, should they ever find themselves in his situation. He wondered if the Goblin King – who did have a great deal of experience – would think the boy unusual; he wondered if the Goblin King was the very reason for his strangeness.

Certainly there was enough of Jareth and the Labyrinth in the boy's aura to justify it, but something told him that Jareth – honourable fool that he was – had honoured his agreement with the mortal girl, and had stayed away from her and her brother since she had successfully run his damned maze. Such scruples had certainly not come from his father, unless Aethan-the-father was a very different man to Aethan-the-statesman.

Vane should know. He and Aethan had been in ruthless opposition since the young Lord Vane had schemed and murdered his way to his King's ear, and had been named First Counsellor of what had then been the Court of Winter. They had been enemies for so long that he could not remember a time when his life had not been shaped by reports of what the other was doing, or by speculation of how he would react to one of Vane's moves. He knew how Aethan's mind worked, and no doubt the reverse was true –

Once, only once, had they joined in common purpose. Since then, the game had only deepened...

He looked at the boy, all but trembling with fear and defiance. Gods of Earth and Sky, what strength... "My name," he said, "is Vane."

* * *

"Who is this...Vane?" Sarah demanded. "Why has he taken Toby?"

She could feel her head beginning to ache, a combination of stress and worry over Toby's whereabouts and wellbeing and the mental strain of trying to spar with the inscrutable Aethan. The man – the true man, not the role she was beginning to suspect he'd been playing – had no expressions whatsoever, and trying to keep up with him was like trying to grasp an amorphous, constantly shifting shadow.

She was no longer sure that she had made a good choice in calling upon Aethan. Perhaps it would have been better to call on Jareth, the devil she – partially – knew and understood? At least the Goblin King had shown definite signs of emotion and – something she thought his father would have deplored – hot-blooded temper.

But she had not called Jareth, and at the moment, Aethan was all that she had. He could lead her to Toby, and that was all that mattered.

"Vane," Aethan said musingly, "is the right hand of the Unseelie King. It is his place to seek out and destroy any threats to the Kingdom before they become too dangerous..."

But Sarah frowned, impatient and confused. "What has that got to do with Toby?"

Aethan watched her closely, scrutinising her reactions and the thoughts that flowed so clearly across her face. "I would guess that your brother was taken to act as a balance to the threat that you pose, Sarah. He is...important to you, yes?"

She nodded dumbly. "I would do anything for him."

"And because," he continued, "he has visited the Underground once before, and at such an impressionable age..." He trailed off. Huw's eyes darted to his, very quickly, so that the woman would not see. They had not discussed sharing this with Sarah –

Sarah, who so valued absolute honesty and openness –

"There is some...speculation...about the effect that the Underground might have on a child who had been wished away, and then – almost unimaginably – won back. Or perhaps I should say speculation about such a child's effect on the Underground, and the Goblin Kingdom in particular."

Once more, she looked confused. "I don't understand." She looked at Huw, as if the other man would give a clearer, less enigmatic answer.

Huw attempted to explain. "Toby poses a twofold use; the first, as a hostage for your behaviour should your presence in the Underground threaten to become dangerous for Vane, and second, as a possible weapon against Jareth..." He looked at Aethan again, hesitated, and then continued in a hushed, uncertain voice. "And then, there is the prophecy..."

Aethan's peremptory hand gesture cut him off.

But Sarah was frowning suspiciously. "Prophecy? What prophecy? What the hell is going on?" Her eyes, suddenly accusing, turned to Aethan again. "You didn't say anything about a prophecy before..."

"No," the older man said very dryly. Huw suddenly found himself engrossed in the delicately painted patterns on the tea cup. "No, I didn't."

In the midst of the chaos, famine and poverty that overtook the Underground after the end of the Great Wars, rumours began to appear of a wandering prophet spreading word of a new golden era of peace, prosperity and order, and of the Innocent who would help to bring it into being. This Innocent, the prophet proclaimed, would know all the secrets of the Underground and would use them to drive out the darkness of corruption and bring back the light of the righteous sun –

Or son –

Or some such nonsensical babble, designed to appeal to the masses and take their minds off their miserable lot in life. Needless to say, Aethan and Vane, who had still been in collusion then, to protect the new order they had so carefully created, had had the rambling fool of a prophet thoroughly discredited and had set about ensuring the prophecy was silenced once and for all. Unfortunately, such things can never be fully suppressed – the prophecy had survived relatively intact to this very day.

Aethan did not believe in Kings, but in kings. He believed in statecraft, diplomacy and power, not blood right, healing hands and mystic covenants. He did not believe in a divinely ordained monarchy, where the weak boy he had so neatly rendered ineffectual had a sacred right to rule simply because his father had been the High King, and his father before him, and his father before him. He may have made a very pretty speech about Jareth changing the nature of the Underground, upsetting the natural order, but that was all it had been – a pretty speech.

And he most certainly did not believe in Fate, or Destiny, or this godsdamned prophecy...

An innocent boy, familiar with the secrets of the Labyrinth at least, had returned to the Underground of his own free will, and – fallen? No, he very much doubted it was accidental – into Vane's hands.

He did not believe in prophecy. But he believed in enemy action...

* * *

Scowling, his mismatched eyes wild and feral, the Goblin King paced the floor of his deserted throne room, too furious to trust himself to kick goblins safely out of the way. He had lost the polite veneer of humanity that most of the higher sidhe used to mask their true nature, and at the moment, in his fury, there could be no doubt that he was not, never had been, and never would be human – a social solecism, in the bright seelie courts that he had left behind long ago. But then, he had not been this furious in a very long time – not since _she _had rejected him so triumphantly.

And even then, he had been able to recognise that it had been, at least partially, his instigation that had led her to such righteousness – now, he could focus the full force of his considerable temper on one, wholly deserving party.

_Vane._

Vane had been the one to bring the unknown mortal through the Barrier.

No, not an unknown mortal.

The boy. Vane had his hands on the boy.

And thanks to the hag, he thought he could guess why.

Throwing open the doors, he pinned one of the wooden-faced, wild-eyed goblin guards standing rigidly at attention with a feral glare. "Bran," he said icily, "and the messenger. Now." The guard left at a run.

Five minutes later, the two men appeared, and Jareth – forcibly restraining his temper, his cursed temper – turned to the messenger. "When you return to your lord, messenger, tell him that he has my support in this matter, and that I will render what aid I can."

Face impassive, eyes gleaming, the messenger bowed deeply. "Yes, your Majesty, I will tell him that you offer your full support and will do everything in your power to help..."

Jareth shook his head. "That was not what I said."

Straightening up from his deep bow, the messenger dropped all pretence of grovelling, and looked the Goblin King straight in the eye. "As you say," he said, only inclining his head now, "I will tell my lord your exact words. For, despite their various motivations, all the loyalists share the same basic goal, do they not...?"

His eyes, steady and confident, did not waver from Jareth's hooded, alien gaze, and finally the King's mouth curled and he waved a hand in short, sharp dismissal. The messenger bowed once, crisply, and left the room with his head held high. His footsteps echoed through the stone corridor, and until the sound had fully died away, there was silence in the throne room.

And then Bran, who had been watching quietly from the shadows, stepped into the light and looked at his lord, eyebrows slightly lifted. "Do they not?" he repeated softly, questioningly.

Jareth said nothing.

* * *

Ah.... So Aethan is a cynic, but one content with _his own_ position in the hierarchy he created; Jareth is something of an idealist, but one who took full advantage of the opportunities presented by the Great Wars. Vane joined with his arch-enemy to create the bipolar Underground, so why did he snatch Toby? How will Sarah and Toby be used in this game?

Please tell me what you think. Will be grateful for feedback of any kind. Thanks very much.


	11. Proposals

A/N – You've all been wonderfully patient. And now I present…(drum roll)…plot movement, leading to the certainty of some Jareth and Sarah interaction sometime in the future. Next chapter, in fact. (awed gasp)

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue me.

* * *

Chapter 11

* * *

In all the years he had served the High King, the messenger had never seen his lord quite like this. When he had first entered his service, the main impression he had gained of him was that of a quiet man, a restrained man who might once have had the potential to be great, but… The potential, the fire, had been tamed, all but smothered by the centuries of enforced idleness.

That was how it had been, then.

Now, something had energised him, had put colour into his thin, white face. Ever since he had begun to intrigue – the messenger didn't know the whole picture, didn't want to know the whole picture, because there were others who were not so loyal – his lord had come alive.

"Well?" the High King asked. "What says the Goblin King?" There was genuine curiosity in his voice, now, and a kind of suppressed eagerness – an odd thing to see, in one normally so self-contained. His movements were quicker, more confident and less tentative, and he had more assurance than the messenger had ever seen him display. One could almost believe that he was a King, now…

The messenger, newly returned from the Goblin Kingdom, sat down carefully at his lord's bidding and accepted the offer of wine. It was rich and heady; summer wine, many seasons old, from the High King's own cellar, poured by his own hand. He was generous, this King – gracious and generous, genuinely good and well-loved by all his subjects. Well, and why should he not be? He had no power, and he had not had to make any of the hard decisions that came with it.

Although if everything that he hoped for came to pass, then he would indeed have to learn how to make hard decisions…

"My lord," he said, repeating the message word-for-word, "he says that you have his support in this matter, and that he will render what aid he can…"

"Is that what he said?"

A self-mocking smile flashed briefly across the messenger's face. "His exact words, my lord."

The High King nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Lucan." He looked the messenger over, seemed to notice the worn, unshaven face and the rumpled, spattered clothes, and sent him away with a gracious, if distracted smile. "No doubt you're looking forward to a bath and some rest…"

Lucan drained his wine and set the goblet back on the table, then bowed to his lord and took his leave. It had been a very long journey indeed, and he was glad to be home.

* * *

Dante tapped his fingers on the polished wooden table, thinking on the message Lucan had brought him from the Goblin Kingdom. Disappointing, in a way, although he had never expected Jareth to support him unconditionally – no, he was too much his father's son for that, no matter his feelings on the High Kingship.

But what aid he _could – _what did he mean by that? What could possibly cause the Goblin King, the most fiercely independent of all the petty rulers, to hold back and hesitate about a matter on which he felt so strongly? Was he wary of crossing his father? No, they had spoken of this before, and Jareth had talked of moving beyond any fear of his father's manipulations –

Filial duty and respect, then? Who knew how deep that relationship still ran, even now?

No, it would have crippled him as a ruler, if that were so.

So it was something else, then. Something significant enough to cause him pause, but not dangerous enough – yet – to cause him trouble enough to withdraw. And this change of heart had occurred recently, even within the last few days…

His spies had not brought him word of anything particularly noteworthy in the last week: the Mountain King's mistress had been found with another man – no surprise, for he had arranged it; one of the Unseelie King's clerks had been found out as a Seelie spy, tortured and subsequently sent back in a sack – a fine example of Vane's dedication – Dante suspected that he also knew of the other two but deliberately left them alone; and a minor Seelie baron had been found dead in his own home. No one knew why, but there was suspicion of Aethan's involvement in it – and why should he take an interest in such an insignificant pawn?

It was not in his usual style.

He was up to something.

* * *

"You're giving this too much importance," Bran said, leaning back against the wall, watching his lord stare into the distance towards Winter – towards the mortal boy who had almost become one of them. "You're playing into his hands."

"Whose?" Jareth said shortly. "Vane's or my father's?" He was sprawled carelessly on the throne, one leg thrown over the side, tapping his riding crop on his thigh; but despite his posture he was by no means relaxed.

Bran's heavy-lidded gaze noted the absently tapping crop and the narrowed, miscoloured eyes, saw the signs of tension and restlessness – but at least that dangerous temper had been brought back under tight control, and Jareth was now thinking clearly and not emotionally, acting and not reacting.

"Both of them, I should think," he replied neutrally. "They both seek to control you through these mortals." He paused. "A futile hope, of course…"

Jareth stopped tapping, lifted his head to meet Bran's eyes. Neither of them looked away for a long, long moment, and then Jareth closed his eyes and lowered his head, allowing his hair to veil his features. An odd gesture, uncharacteristic of him – seeing it, Bran breathed out in a quiet, resigned hiss.

"Once again, Brother Raven," Jareth said lightly, self-mocking now, "you disapprove. You always did." He straightened his posture, stood up in a long, smooth, graceful movement, and then turned away to look out the window, away from Bran's eyes. "What then would you have me do?"

Bran continued to stare thoughtfully at his back. "Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?(1) You know what I would have you do." Though he couldn't see it, he knew Jareth's smile twisted, and the eyes were no longer laughing.

There was a long, fraught silence, and then, "No." The Goblin King turned back to face his second-in-command. "Find another way."

Bran measured the steel in those eyes, in that voice, and then he bowed his head to honour his lord's command. "As you say," he said quietly, and then turned on his heel and left the room.

Jareth watched him go, absently tapping the riding crop against his thigh once more, before turning back to the window.

* * *

Sarah sat still, trying to absorb all the information that she had just been given, but all she truly understood was that Toby had been taken as a pawn in a huge political game of chess, and that Aethan was reluctant to upset the precarious balance of the Underground to get him back. At least, that was what he had said – she was beginning to understand that what Aethan said and what Aethan truly meant were two very different things, despite all that he had said about the Fae never lying.

But there were levels and layers of truth – she had known this, on an instinctive level, since her trip through the Labyrinth – and some things were truer than others, some truths more…open to interpretation than might be thought at first glance.

_…Everything that you have asked, I have done…_

_…You asked that the child be taken, I took him…_

_…Turned the world upside down, and I have done it all for you…_

Would Jareth have put her wishes above the balance of the Underground, had she asked it of him?

Aethan had tempted her into calling him to preserve the balance, as a counter-weight to Jareth who wished to upset it. She could only imagine that Lord Vane had done the same with Toby, taken him as a balance against Jareth and Aethan both.

Or perhaps, given this prophecy… Did he mean to use Toby as a threat, or as an actual catalyst?

And Sarah, in the middle of this tangled, impossibly complex mess, wanted only one thing – she wanted her brother back, just as she had ten years ago. The only difference this time was that there was no impossibly handsome Goblin King to distract her. The clear simplicity of her goal lent her an objectivity that Aethan and Huw, blinded by history and the limitations of their games, could not share, and it was her single-mindedness and willingness to think differently that drove her to speak out, to suggest what the other two would never have dreamed of even thinking.

"Why don't we join forces with Jareth?" she asked bluntly.

Aethan and Huw, who had been quietly discussing something while she struggled to assimilate all their information, giving her time to recover, turned towards her in some surprise. Aethan's surprise, however, lasted only a moment before it was replaced with speculation, and then with bland curiosity – but she had been watching him, saw the expressions flash across his eyes in quick succession, and knew she had his attention.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked politely, trying to put her off before she could begin.

She ignored him. "I know you wanted me to be a balance against Jareth, but when Vane took Toby, circumstances changed, didn't they?" She paused, trying to put her racing speculations into some kind of order. "You don't think that Vane is interested in maintaining the balance anymore, and you're worried that his idea of an 'upset' will be far worse than Jareth's ever will."

Aethan's face remained stubbornly impassive.

"I want my brother back, you want to remove this threat to the balance from Vane's hands, and I doubt Jareth would be comfortable with Vane holding a potential threat to his Kingdom either – so why don't we join forces to get him back?"

Aethan watched the mortal woman with great interest. There were so many holes in her logic it was almost painful, but she was correct on one undeniable point – Vane meddling in the Underground would be far, far worse than Jareth meddling. Vane's revision of the status quo would not include a Council of Lords, or anything but a poorly disguised dictatorship –

How strange, that he should still place so much trust in his son even after so long as enemies.

And then, afterwards, they could resolve the rest of the conflicts between them – the matter of the High Kingship being the main, but by no means only one – in peace.

Sarah smiled – just a little smugly – and Aethan wondered how she could possibly have read the decision in his face. "Very well," he said calmly, "I will send a message to the Goblin Kingdom, requesting a meeting."

"Won't you need to explain the circumstances first?" she asked, puzzled.

Huw paused, taken aback, and then laughed. "He knows," he said dryly, if not unkindly. "If there's one thing that's certain, it's his knowledge of your whereabouts – yours and your brother's."

"Oh," she said, paling a little. "Do you mean…?"

"You and Toby are his only real vulnerabilities. He has had his eye on you constantly since you returned to your own world – and had you remained there, it would have indeed been nothing more than an eye. However, now that you have crossed over…"

He stopped.

She did not pick up on his abrupt silence, wrapped up in another revelation – that while she may have forgotten or blocked out the Goblin King, he had most certainly not forgotten her. That was very well – she did not need to know of Bran's extremely pragmatic approach to whatever he considered a threat.

Aethan interrupted the silence, sending Huw off to fetch paper and ink. When he had gone, he turned to Sarah, examining her slightly flushed countenance, the brightness of her eyes. Jareth must have made quite an impression on her – but then, she had been only fifteen. The only wonder was that she hadn't given into him, given him everything he asked for and anything he didn't. Instead, it seemed, she had achieved quite the opposite – from what he had heard, Jareth had been the one offering everything.

And even then, she had rejected him.

Quite a remarkable woman…

No, he did not think that they would have to be on their guard against assassins. If Jareth was idealist enough to want to restore the High Kingship, he was foolish enough to let this one vulnerability live, despite all the mischief that could be done by any who held her or her brother. They were safe enough – for the moment.

* * *

(1) "Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answers?" - from X-Men the movie. This is one of Magneto's lines, in the confrontation with Xavier at the beginning.

A/N – I am not quite sure about this chapter. It seems to be a little abrupt, a little awkward, but… Oh, well. Please tell me what you think – any and all feedback will be gratefully accepted.

Thanks to all my reviewers. And a special mention to Draegon-fire, who was spot on in her analysis. (Rewards (her?) with a big grin – am too broke to afford even virtual cookies).


	12. Long awaited Reunions

A/N – The long awaited event – Jareth and Sarah meet.

Disclaimer – I don't the Labyrinth. Nor do I own Tolkien's Silmarillion, or the sons of Feanor, as much as I would like to get my hands on Maedhros.

10th Dec - changed Sarah 'Evans' to Sarah Williams. Am getting my fandoms mixed up.

* * *

_When I was a child, I spake as a child,  
I understood as a child, I thought as a child:  
but when I became a man, I put away childish things…_

**_First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians_**_  
Bible, 1 Corinthians 13, verse 11_

_

* * *

_

Chapter 12 – Long-awaited Reunions

* * *

It was not that Jareth did not trust his father.

He did.

There were some things and some issues on which Aethan could be trusted absolutely and without question – he would never tell a direct lie, and if and when he gave his word, he kept it.

But -

_The Fae never lie – but truth is an illusion…_

_Never make promises that you can't keep, or oaths that you won't._

There was a human tale, from the Aboveground, of seven brothers who swore a terrible vow to regain their father's greatest works and to kill anything and anyone who stood in their way. Again and again and again, their vow led to tragedy and bloodshed, but they had sworn by the Everlasting Darkness, and would not – could not – relinquish it, even when given the chance to do so honourably.

By then, of course, it had been too late – too much blood had been shed, too much hatred sown, and they would not accept that it had all been in vain. At the very last, when only two were left, they finally fulfilled their vow, and died or went mad because of it.

Aethan had described it as a salutary lesson in the dangers of magical jewels and hasty, hot-blooded promises.

The problem with his father was that it was nearly impossible to get him to a point where he could be trusted. A man of shadows, of greys, of half-truths and evasions, actually pinning him down to a promise, a commitment, a statement was like trying to pin down and make tangible the wind itself. But when he deigned to send a message like the one that had arrived earlier – not, of course, addressed to him in any way – Jareth could almost believe in his sincerity.

_There are matters of which we must speak. Let there be a truce between us, at least for the duration of our counsel; I will abide by any terms you see fit to impose on our meeting._

And that was it. No impassioned pleas for unity or family affection, no trading on their relationship which had once been so very close…

And no mention of 'the good of the Underground'. But Aethan had never had a use for false hypocrisy.

* * *

_At midnight, come by the hidden ways to the borderlands. Bring only the woman and your aide – you will be met._

Sarah was not quite sure how she felt that night, reading that note, standing in this barren, lonely place that Aethan called the Borderlands – empty plains at the foot of a mountain range, beyond which stood the Goblin Kingdom. It was solid evidence as it was that there was indeed a Goblin King, and a Goblin Kingdom – there were trade routes and smuggler's trails through the mountains, and the Goblin King had old-fashioned, bold copperplate handwriting, both facts strangely mundane in this fantasy world.

Huw, however, must have read something different into it, because he grimaced. "Bran," he said, his bravado covering not a little fear.

Aethan spared him a glance, grinned, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Don't worry, Huw. He won't bite – unless Jareth orders it."

"A comforting thought."

Sarah frowned. "I don't understand. Who is Bran? A guard dog?" She didn't know the Goblin King kept pets – there hadn't been any evidence of it before…

There was a quiet chuckle from somewhere behind them, a low, amused laugh, and Huw paled before he could control himself. Sarah swallowed, and then turned around to see who had snuck up on them in this place –

Aethan, of course, had not even turned a hair.

The stranger stepped forward out of the night, leading four horses: a pale man - a sidhe, as Aethan and Jareth and Huw were sidhe – in shades of shifting grey and black, so that he seemed to fade in and out of the shadows. He bowed courteously, first to Aethan, and then to Huw and Sarah. "_I_ am Bran, Sarah Williams. The Goblin King welcomes you all to his Kingdom and guarantees you safe conduct to the Goblin City." He turned to Huw, grinning suddenly. "I promise I won't bite…"

Sarah could see why Huw had paled.

"If you will follow me," the stranger – Bran – said, "I will lead you to the City. The King is waiting."

Aethan nodded, turned to Sarah to explain as they mounted and moved out, as he had occasionally done when he sensed she was puzzled. "There are some places in the Underworld, Sarah, where instant transportation is not possible, either because of magical wards or natural iron deposits. The mountain ranges surrounding the Goblin Kingdom are full of iron – even the strongest fae must traverse them on foot or horseback. It makes for excellent security…"

Bran turned in the saddle. "There are those among the Lords who think that Jareth arranged the iron deposits himself. But these mountains have been here for a long, long time – longer than the Goblin Kingdom, longer than the Goblins, longer than the fae themselves…"

"So the Underground was here before the fae?" Sarah asked, fascinated. She had never before thought of the Underground as a place with history, legends, and myths of its own.

Bran shrugged. "The first fae came from the Aboveground long, long ago, fleeing from an unknown enemy or exploring unknown territory – so long ago that it has faded beyond memory and even legend. And we are a long-lived race, Sarah – so it has been a very, very long time. And there has always been iron in these hills, and they have always been shunned – until Jareth in all his splendid arrogance decided to make them work for him."

There was amusement and exasperation and warmth in his voice when he spoke of his King, and Sarah made an important discovery – Hoggle had feared Jareth, had painted a picture of a cruel, capricious tyrant, but this man regarded him in quite a different light…

Bran loved him.

Aethan caught her eye, raised a brow. _Do you see? _He seemed to ask. _Do you understand? This is what you did not see, when you first encountered him as a child. Things will be very different, now. _

**

* * *

**

It was almost dawn when they left the interference of the iron far enough behind that Jareth could see them in the scrying water. Bran led them, steady and calm as always, while his father's young aide – Huw, was it not? An ambitious cub, but with potential to match – glared daggers at his back – again, nothing new – and his father showed every sign of greatly enjoying the scenery and the ride.

_He had always loved riding with his father, astride the tall white sidhe horses, thundering across the endless plains under the light of the moon – it had been the one form of release Aethan allowed himself, the one wild, reckless remembrance of his youth and his past…_

For an instant, the water in the bowl shimmered, reformed, showed a different image from a different time, dredged from the depths of his memory…

_A white haired man, tall and slender, laughed and kissed the hand of a dark haired woman, who held out a hand to her husband, to her two elder sons, and to her last, youngest child – the young boy's eyes glowed with happiness, with joy, and with innocence…_

Jareth's hand struck the bowl, oversetting it, spilling the water in an arc of silver drops as they splattered against the wall, destroying the vision – the memory – beyond hope of recall. The innocent boy vanished, leaving a king in his place, with old, cynical eyes and a blank face trained to emptiness.

And the dark haired woman, so dimly remembered, was banished back to the depths of his subconscious, where she belonged.

* * *

They slipped into the city with the morning crowds, blending in with the farmers and wagons entering the gates, bringing their wares to the Goblin City for sale and consumption. Three sidhe and one human woman riding sidhe horses were hardly inconspicuous, true, but Bran had his ways; they passed without comment through the market and up the winding streets heading towards the castle overlooking the City.

He watched her, from the corner of his eye, this woman who had so captivated his lord, and three of the most antisocial creatures of the Labyrinth. Those three unfortunates who had risked far more than the Bog for her had been, in some ways, easier to understand – loners all, she had offered the hand of friendship to them, bound them together in a common cause, given them a focal point for their thwarted emotions. But Jareth…

Even Jareth had fallen under her spell.

It could not have been her beauty – there were dark haired beauties aplenty, in the courts of the fae, some of them far more classically beautiful than this mortal. It could not have been her spirit, because she had been a whiny, sullen and resentful fool when she had first run the Labyrinth, although he would admit that she was quite different now. Perhaps it had been her innocence, under the sullen front – the innocence that had only been seen in her dreams, in the ballroom –

Oh yes, he had been there. He had seen that too-telling dance where both of them, unmasked, had revealed far more than they should have.

Too many of those who wished their children away were hard, or cold, or desperate enough to be ruthless – there was no beauty to their bony, helpless features, no light in the ugliness of their intentions. Because words alone were insufficient to summon the goblins, there had to be true malicious intent as well behind the words and the thought to work the summoning – Sarah, teetering on the edge of childhood, had been adult enough to muster the strength of will, and child enough to muster the thoughtless malice.

Perhaps it had been her sincere regret and horror – but there had been such mistakes made before, and none of them had ensnared the Goblin King.

Bran would never dare to say it aloud, nor even fully explore the concept in the privacy of his own thoughts, but there had been times when he wondered if she were not, in some way, the reflection of another, far older image of a dark haired, pale woman, who had loved her child…

Jareth had revealed too much to Sarah, and she had unraveled his spell, pierced his defenses and solved his Labyrinth, ultimately leading them all to this current state of affairs. Such were the consequences of not thinking with the rational, calculating intellect –

_Oh, Brother Raven, and you have the perfect right to speak on such a subject, do you…?_

But he, at least, had learned from his mistakes, grievous though they had been. It remained to be seen whether Jareth would learn the same lessons.

**

* * *

**

Sarah looked around her in wonder. Riding through the countryside of the Goblin Kingdom had been like revisiting her past, but from a completely different perspective. The Labyrinth, sprawling and monolithic, had been just as awesome as she remembered, but the City – could this really be the Goblin City she had once stormed with three friends and a dog? Then, the buildings had been mud-brick, and primitive, and the inhabitants had all been Goblins, short and squat and hopelessly clumsy. But now – now, the streets were cobbled, and well laid out and planned, the houses were stone or wood, and well built, and the people walking the streets were a mixture of the clumsy goblins she remembered, of a far sleeker, more muscular breed of the same goblins carrying well-worn weaponry, of fae of all kinds and tall, pale-skinned sidhe walking side by side with the goblins and with a number of people she recognized, with astonishment, as human.

Huw, still glancing uneasily every now and then at Bran's back, leaned towards her and said, "They say the Goblin Kingdom is one of the most open – multicultural and multiracial – places in the Underground. Anyone is welcome, so long as they swear ultimate allegiance to Jareth – anyone at all, no matter their blood, their breed, or their pasts." He slid a look sideways at Bran, who met it straightly, impassively; Sarah wondered why Huw persisted in needling the other man. Because she didn't want to be around when the quiet, self-contained man decided to take action –

Or, if he were ordered to take action –

But then the Castle loomed before them, forbidding and imposing – far more solid and realistic than she remembered – and they clattered, still mounted, under the portcullis and into the courtyard, where other black cloaked guards strode up, took hold of their bridles, and helped them dismount. Well-trained as they were, they made no reaction when they first saw Aethan, or even Sarah, but Bran's eyes were upon them, watching, measuring, judging, and it seemed as though their fear of their leader outweighed any natural urges to curiosity.

Two in particular came to meet them – brothers, it looked like, although one looked like proper sidhe – as far as she knew, when she numbered only four in her acquaintance – and the other like a more human, less exotic mirror. Bran nodded at the perfect one, touched the other briefly on his shoulder, and surrendered his guests into their hands with a quick, quiet word.

The human mirror walked forwards to bow to Aethan, first, his ordinary brown eyes downcast – not meeting the older Lord's gaze – and then to Sarah, at whom he darted a quick, uncertain glance. "My lord, my lady," he said, and then, with a nod to Huw, "Master Huw. My name is Owen. I will take you to the King."

"I thought this was supposed to be a private meeting," Aethan said, rather dryly. "And yet at this rate the whole Castle will know of it."

Was it her imagination, or did Owen flinch? But then the other one, the sidhe brother, spoke up in another, liquid language, challenging Aethan – Owen placed a gentle hand on his arm, shook his head, checking the automatic defence. "No one will speak of this," he said quietly. "The King has ordered it, Bran has made arrangements –"

Huw opened his mouth, would have made a comment – no doubt a derogatory one – but Aethan held up a hand.

"Jareth guarantees this?" he asked, intently.

For the first time, Owen lifted his eyes and met Aethan's gaze. _He's half human,_ Sarah realized. _That's why he wouldn't meet Aethan's eyes... And that's why his brother stood up for him. _"Yes," Owen said proudly. "He guarantees it."

He was afraid to look a sidhe lord in the eye. And yet he defended his own lord fiercely –

Aethan nodded, acknowledging the pledge.

Following behind the two brothers, they passed into the Castle beyond the Goblin City.

**

* * *

**

Aethan had never before set foot in the Goblin Kingdom. Although Jareth had reigned here for near a thousand years, and had been recognized as a legitimate sovereign some centuries after the War, Aethan – as the Seelie King's First Counsellor – could not simply walk into a hostile ruler's kingdom without precautions, not even his son's. At any rate, he was too valuable to be risked – a status that worked to his advantage in some situations, if not in others. And so he had had to rely on diplomats and traveller's tales for a description of this realm his son had carved out of chaos and made his own.

It was a common stereotype that the Goblin Kingdom backwards and barbarous, a land of brawling goblins and fugitive outlaws huddling behind the shelter of the Labyrinth and the mountains. Well, there were certainly goblins, and fugitive outlaws aplenty – but clad in black livery, and given a new chance and a new pride, under their leader Bran, who was most certainly a man to be taken seriously. And the Labyrinth was everything that he had ever imagined it could be – an awe-inspiring outgrowth of wild magic shaped into an almost impassible barrier –

Not infallible, though, thanks to the woman at his side, whose eyes had been wide and fascinated as they approached their destination.

And here was the Castle, with all its tortuous mind games and quirks – all the things he would expect of his son's last defenses – but the half-breed Exile and his full-blooded brother led them on a more conventional track, into the entry hall with the inevitable squabbling goblins and up twisting stairs built for more practical defence, and through a magnificent pair of doors into a great hall that would not be amiss in the Palace of the Sidhe.

And there, not seated upon his throne as may have been expected, but standing over a table covered with maps and conversing earnestly with Bran, was the Goblin King. He looked up as they were announced, and came himself to meet them – that easy, insolent stride, that could not be disguised by the hair or the ostentatious glitter – graciously extending his hands to them in greeting. A gesture of filial respect, that – outranking Aethan, he could have insisted on the more correct greeting.

Briefly, Aethan pressed his hand, and then turned with great interest to witness the one meeting he had been curious to see ever since he had deduced Sarah's relationship to his son. Jareth's eyes swept past Aethan, acknowledged Huw with a nod, and then settled on Sarah.

**

* * *

**

She was here. So close, he could reach out and touch her – and so far away, there was an impassable gulf between them. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she would not meet his. Well, that was no surprise. The stubborn girl-child had turned into a stubborn woman, and no doubt her exposure to Aethan's particular viewpoints had not helped his position with her.

"Hello, Sarah," he said, nevertheless. Behind him, he could feel Bran's silent disapproval, and his father – though carefully impassive – was all but radiating curiosity and intent interest.

Sarah was simply nervous. But she lifted her chin, looked him straight in the eye, as she had done ten years ago when she had thrown his offer back in his face. "Jareth," she said defiantly. Her face set, her jaw stubborn, she continued on heedless of diplomacy, tact or anything but the strange bond they had once shared and she had denied. "I want to find my brother."

No 'will you help me find my brother', or 'I need your help'. Proud, proud Sarah. Cruel Sarah.

Well, he too could be proud and cruel: he could answer that challenge in any one of a dozen ways, and throw her off balance, deflect the course of the conversation, distract her from her true purpose – Aethan would not help her regain it, not while he was watching with such interest.

But…

"You know where he is," he said, not a challenge, only a statement of fact. "And you went to my father first. Why then did you come to me?"

For the first time she wavered. Swallowed. Almost looked away. Then, in an odd reversal, grew angry for some unknown reason. "You know why," she accused. "Aethan says that this," she waved a dismissive hand, "Lord Vane has Toby and plans to use him as a weapon against you and the Underground. I want Toby back, you don't want Vane holding a potential weapon against you, your father doesn't want Vane to use him in the prophecy –"

The prophecy? Oh, yes… Aethan would certainly have a vested interest in keeping that particular prophecy from coming to fruition.

"Are you proposing, then," he said seriously, "that we join forces?"

She sighed, and it seemed as if all her energy drained out of her. "Yes."

He flicked a glance at Aethan, who was watching him with cool, calculating eyes. A truce, his note had said. For the duration of their counsel, and perhaps until they had both recovered the boy, whom they all wanted out of Vane's hands for very different – and contradictory – reasons. Afterwards, of course…

He did not look at Bran.

Drawing in a deep breath, he met Sarah's honest, open blue eyes. There was no calculation there, no ulterior motives, only honesty and an elder sister's love and determination, as there had been so many years ago.

"Very well," he said abruptly. "I will think on it." He ignored her sputtered protests, swept on despite them. "Tomorrow, we will speak further…"

**

* * *

**

Bran led them off to show them their accommodation for the duration of their stay. As the doors closed behind them, he drew in a deep, cleansing breath, trying to rid himself of her heady, intoxicating scent and the ghost of her presence. Past and present overlapped each other, vying for precedence in his perceptions and thoughts, and he found it harder and harder to dismiss her effect on him as the leftover effect of a shattered enchantment that had rebounded on him twofold.

For some reason, he still could not dismiss the memory of the dark haired woman of his childhood, the mother he had never truly known, and whom Aethan – the most practical and rational of men – still adored, still mourned, thousands of years after her death.

Forever was a very long time.

* * *

A/N – I finally did it. A long chapter, culminating in Jareth and Sarah action. Doesn't such an extraordinary achievement deserve some feedback? Tell me what you think. Thanks to all my reviewers out there, your input and comments are greatly welcomed.


	13. Interlude: Perceptions

A/N – a quick, rather short update. Let us call this an interlude. It may be a tad whimsical.

(Quick note to all fans of Misunderstandings – I have overhauled, modified and reposted chapter 10, if anyone was seeking more.)

Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue.

* * *

Interlude – Perception

* * *

"Did you see it, Huw?" Aethan asked. "The sparks?"

"I saw it," Huw said dryly. "I could hardly miss it…"

The older man grinned, held up his cup of wine and sipped slowly. It was excellent – from the vineyards in the very heart of the Summer country – and Aethan savoured it, and the compliment it represented. Despite the Castle's reputation for barbarity, they had been shown to surprisingly luxurious quarters. Others, perhaps, those who had returned with such unfavourable reports, might have been deliberately denied such hospitality –

He would not put it past his son's elusive, shifting humour.

And, despite Huw's less than subtle needling, Bran had shown them nothing but courtesy – again, something that could easily be remedied. Bran did not bite unless Jareth ordered it to, or unless it was in Jareth's best interests, which were not always one and the same.

Pragmatic Bran.

Ruthless Bran.

Faithful, loyal Bran, who had once been so much more than the Commander of a troop of motley pariahs…

Oh, yes, Aethan remembered. A beautiful, intelligent woman had brought Bran low, too, once upon a time.

"It is not a thing that can be easily hidden, love," Aethan mused quietly. "Nor easily ignored."

"Love?" Huw repeated. "You think it love?"

Aethan only laughed. "The one thing in this life that cannot be regulated."

"What does it mean, then?" Huw asked, clearly uncomfortable at this sign of romanticism in his normally pragmatic mentor. "For us, for the Seelie."

"Politics…" He took another sip of wine. "It taints everything that we do, everything that we are…"

Huw tossed him an aggravated glance. Aethan was obviously in one of his stranger moods, fickle and whimsical and contrary, where nothing and no sense could be gained from him but a vague headache. It did not happen often, this strange mood, but when it did…

"Do you know," Aethan mused, "that the Greeks of Aboveground used to believe their gods were jealous of them? That if a mortal were too beautiful, too brilliant, or too well favoured, then the gods would strike them down, for daring to reach too high?"

Huw allowed that he had heard something of the sort.

"Alexander wept when he heard there were no more lands to conquer. What will Jareth do, I wonder, when this game is played out and he emerges the victor?"

* * *

The Labyrinth remembered.

_Footsteps – hesitant, unsure, and then increasingly confident, and then, with confidence, came the realization of fear, and the conquering of it… _

_A voice, skeptical, and then wondering, and then cocky – gradually, it grew respectful, and then gained true confidence…_

_A hand, extended in demand, in entreaty, in friendship… _

_A dream. A young girl's dream and the gradual awakening to true reality…_

_Skepticism and vacillation._

_Interest, if mild; and curiosity._

_Fear, defiance, and bravado._

_Trust and friendship._

_Confidence and growing maturity._

_Wonder and infatuation._

_Responsibility and determination._

_And then, at the very end, denial… _

_And then awakening._

The Labyrinth was not a secular defense, not like the Exiles or even the Goblin Guards. The Labyrinth was a mystery, barely shaped of wild magic that had been here long before the goblins had, who had turned to it for their security, or the bright shining one who had come to lead the goblins out of the darkness and had put his own trust in the magic in turn.

Aethan may not believe in healing hands and mystic Covenants, but there was a covenant between the bright one who had taken these lands and the goblins on it for his own and the wild magic that had always sheltered them. It was maintained as much by the goblins in their strange rites as by the king in his observance of the geas placed on him, in the mortals and others who walked its paths in love, in devotion.

But, as in all bargains and Covenants in the Underground, there was always a catch, always a doubled edge; the Labyrinth would not keep out those who solved it. Anyone who completed the whole journey to the Centre, who found their way into the guarded heart of the Kingdom, would be included within the very same Covenant originally shaped to keep them out…

* * *

"Now, young Toby, _where _is your darling sister? Where has that cunning old fox taken her? To his King, holding court in his pretty glass palace in the Lake? To young Dante, dreaming of grandeur among the ruins of his illustrious past? Or, perhaps…"

Toby watched the dark, dangerous man called Vane pace back and forth, his black cloak swish-swishing behind him as he moved. He didn't know who the fox was, or how a fox could have gotten Sarah, because his sister was strong and smart and had already beaten the nasty Goblin King once before…

"Perhaps he has gambled on past memories still holding sway – _oh, cunning fox! – _and seeks to counterbalance me? But no, proud Jareth would surely remember the sting of humiliating exile? He reigns in hell, now, and plans to play puppet master in a greater firmament than we have seen for a full thousand years…"

The voice went on, oblivious to Toby's wide eyed presence, and indeed to anything else in the room.

"But if it were so, if she could be a bridge between them, they will present a formidable front. Order in the Underground, oh yes they will spread order in the Underground on the wings of uniformity and Seelie values, of bright beauty and straight, flawless forms. Because, young Toby, no matter that Jareth calls himself the King of the Goblins, he was born of Summer, and in his deepest, most instinctive heart he despises them, holds them in contempt and disgust…"

_"They will remake the world in their own image…"_

* * *

Seated in the window embrasure of the tallest tower, overlooking his Kingdom - the Firey Forest, the Bog of Eternal Stench, the other, enchanted regions and the untidy sprawl of the Goblin City, all ultimately enfolded within the protection of the Labyrinth and the iron-filled mountains – Jareth wondered at what he had become.

He had taken a race of barbaric savages and forged them into something semi-civilised. He had actively welcomed the most dangerous renegades and criminals of the Underground, and had entrusted them with his physical security. He had entered into a pact with wild, uncontrollable magic that could not be tamed and that would exact the old, age-old price from him if he reneged –

Bright child of summer that he had once been, he had been far too young – in so many ways – to treat with such an ancient force. Long ago, before the war, before his exile, he had been young and relatively innocent of anything outside court intrigues and the natural milieu of a high-ranked courtier. Life in the warm, temperate Summerlands had not prepared him for exile in the wilder parts of the Underground, where the old magics and older gods still lingered in the hidden places, in the forgotten places…

He had been cruel, but not ruthlessly so. He had been malicious, but only playfully so. He had been cynical, but it had only been a youthful veneer, an affectation. He had provoked a war in ignorance of the true consequences –

But look at him now.

He had been Marked by the wild magic, visible signs of his bargains and obligations. He had killed, deliberately and cold-bloodedly. He had destroyed, broken, divided and devastated his enemies with a malice and ruthlessness that would have shocked his younger self. He no longer truly believed in anything, so steeped in the illusions and deceptions of his own land had he become. If he had ideals left – and perhaps he did, he was not sure – he no longer held them with anything resembling a whole heart.

He was a consummate actor, a chameleon, who had lost all touch with the reality of his original form, and could only remember the seeming of it.

And he had fallen into infatuation with a fifteen year old girl, and fell even deeper with her twenty-five year old self.

* * *

A/N – Any comments or feedback would be greatly appreciated. Many thanks to all who have reviewed before. 


	14. Chapter 14

A/N – This chapter contains: some light-hearted whimsy, some more insight into Bran's past, a Jareth-Aethan confrontation, and Sarah encountering Jareth at his worst.

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. I don't own the Borgia family either, and I'm not quite sure that I'd want to. I just borrowed and twisted them.

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Chapter 14

* * *

In the dawn light, the Goblin Kingdom was spread out like a jeweled tapestry below her, its colours rich and textured, the shadows sharp-edged, and the air achingly clear. This was a sunrise such as she had only ever seen in the remotest areas of the Aboveground, when she had gone camping far from the city…

And then there was a crash, and distant shouting, and the sound of group of goblins fleeing gibbering and taunting away from a minor disaster.

As she watched, a slender, lithe form cloaked in black – the Exiles' colour – made his way down towards the disturbance, in no hurry at all, but rather with a distinct air of annoyance. Sarah had the impression that such disturbances were not uncommon – the crash had been followed by jeers and abuse, as if the ordinary townsfolk were used to such disaster, not by panicked screams and terror – and that the guard she was watching had been unlucky enough to be stuck cleaning it up.

She smiled.

This was no fantasy city, no fairy tale kingdom. It had drainage problems, and traffic buildups, and mundane, everyday problems – quite a number of them caused by rowdy goblins, she imagined – just like any other 'real' city in the Aboveground. No doubt Jareth had his share of problems, too, come to think of it; surely he didn't spend all his time tempting young girls, stealing babies, and intriguing.

She thought of him wearing wire-rimmed half-moon spectacles, grumbling over mounds of paperwork. It was an oddly endearing image.

* * *

Some time later, a quiet tap on the door drew her attention away from the view and her own thoughts. Almost reluctantly she uncurled her legs and left the window embrasure, crossing the thick, carpeted floor to the door, checking instinctively, as she had done for years, to see who it was. She had been looking forward to confronting Jareth after their very short conversation last night… But rather than Jareth, or Aethan, or even Bran, it was the dark haired half-human guard who had been afraid to look Aethan in the eye last night.

"Miss Williams," he said, standing in the doorway, "my name is Owen. His Majesty requests your presence in his council chambers at twelve o'clock this morning. Until then, he has assigned me to be your guide, should you wish to explore the castle or go down into the city."

She stared at him in disbelief, her endearing image of spectacles and paperwork quickly disappearing. "Twelve o'clock? That's hours away. What's so important that he can't see me – and his own father, too! – until then?"

If she had thought to disconcert him, she failed. "No doubt the King has his reasons." He shrugged. "Ours not to reason why…"

Sarah looked at him, fascinated. "Tennyson," she said, suddenly sidetracked. "But he's an Aboveground poet."

Owen smiled. "So he was."

"Then how…" She stopped. "That's entirely beside the point. Why can't Jareth see me now? I have to save Toby – who knows what's happening to him!" Her voice rose recklessly, and Owen made a small shushing gesture, stopping short of laying a hand on her arm.

"Peace, Miss Williams; you may be sure that Lord Vane will not harm your brother yet. Not so long as he believes Toby can be of use in some manner."

She scowled at him. "Thanks very much. That's a truly comforting thought, Owen."

"And as for his Majesty…" He stepped further back into the corridor, so that he was no longer blocking the doorway. "He will do whatever he sees fit. And there is nothing you or I or anyone can do to change that."

She sighed. She really shouldn't be taking her anger out on Owen when it was Jareth she was truly angry with. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm never at my best early in the morning, and I've been under a lot of stress lately." She grabbed her coat and moved out to join him in the corridor, and they began to walk.

He bowed slightly, acknowledging the apology. "I understand perfectly. If it were my brother missing…"

His brother, who was full blooded fae while he himself was only half. Aethan and Huw had told her a little of the Goblin Kingdom's unique situation – was that why Owen and his brother were here, in this Kingdom that took in all comers?

"You're not native to this Kingdom, are you," she asked, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"Native?" He shook his head. "Only the goblins are native to this land. My brother Caede and I took service with the King some three hundred years ago."

She choked. "Three hundred years! But surely…"

"We were less than fifty years old," he continued on relentlessly, "barely old enough to bear arms when we were thrown out of our village. It took us three months to walk here."

"But that's terrible," she protested. Outrage, compassion, sympathy – she ran the gamut of emotions thinking of two boys tossed out into the cruel world with nowhere else to go. But they had had a place to go; Jareth had provided it.

"You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you," she said quietly, realizing the truth of it. "How many others are there?"

He shrugged. "The Exiles number some five hundred swords, and perhaps three times that many who are not fighters. This is not a large country – its strength lies not in armies but in the King's magic, and in the Labyrinth. If it comes to war…" he stopped, compressed his lips.

"War?" she repeated sharply. "What do you mean, war?" She stopped walking, turned to face him, confront him with her demands for information.

But he shook his head, and refused to speak of it any further.

* * *

He had been known by a different name, once, long ago, and he had thought it lost among the wreckage of history, a long-forgotten footnote to a story centuries ended.

But Aethan knew it, knew _him; _the cunning Seelie advisor had been instrumental in the destruction of his name, his reputation, and of everything and everyone he had ever loved…

Because they stood in his way.

He had never before hated another man the way he hated Aethan, with his cool, sardonic manner and his detached, measuring gaze, and he suspected that he never would again. Emotion of such high intensity simply cannot be sustained, white-hot, for nearly two thousand years; eventually, even the most virulent hatred reduces itself to ashes.

So it was with a dull resignation that Bran faced his old enemy now, a bitter aftertaste in his mouth but nothing more. He had been Jareth's Raven for too long – Jareth, who was Aethan's favourite son – to act on that ancient hatred; despite all he may say or even think, the Goblin King still held his father in considerable affection. The sins of the father were not, in Bran's eyes, visited upon the son – and besides, if he stepped between them, blundering into the very sensitive relationship, they might _both_ turn on him…

"Lord Aethan," he said, wondering that the words did not stick in his throat, "his Majesty respectfully requests that I escort you to meet with him at the eleventh hour of the morning. Until then, I am to be entirely at your disposal…"

Aethan agreed and said everything that was amiable and courteous. He would be pleased to see his Majesty whenever he should see fit. And he would be most pleased to receive a guided tour of the city and the castle – oh, no, his aide was still abed, a small matter of the most excellent wine his Majesty was gracious enough to provide them…

Bran resolved to find Caede and set him to make sure Huw did not go wandering off on his own.

"But tell me, Master Bran," Aethan said pleasantly, as they strolled in the castle gardens, Caede duly informed, "how is it that you came to the Goblin Kingdom? A strange place to find a man of your…experience and expertise."

Bran laughed pleasantly. "I'm sure you remember the chaos and upheaval of the last war. There were so many sides and factions it was impossible for anyone to know with certainty what was going on, let alone the rootless wanderer I was then. I met his Majesty – Lord Jareth, as he was then – on the battlefield at Cair Leon."

"I remember," Aethan nodded. "Where old Lord Otho of the Southfells lost three quarters of his men to that upstart from Nevismouth – what was his name? – who won the supreme privilege of marriage with the Borgia girl. And eventually paid for it with his life, as I recall…"

Bran's mouth quirked. Lucrezia Borgia, daughter of what had then been an old but impoverished house, was brilliant, beautiful, and voraciously ambitious. As soon as her upstart husband had established a following for himself, she had poisoned him and invited her domineering father and her infamously ruthless brother Cesare to take over his struggle in the name of her unborn son. Bran knew they had come out of the war as one of the few victors, with great estates and even greater influence, and that her son – now nine hundred years old – was little more than a puppet who looked far more like his uncle than his late father.

But no one ever commented on it in their hearing.

"But back to your story," Aethan reminded him. "You met him at Cair Leon?"

"Yes," Bran said, slowly, reminded of that day long past. It had been a small, squalid battle, with nothing to distinguish it but the shocking slaughter of Southfells' men – and that was due more to his stupidity than Nevismouth's steady, if lacklustre skills. "Nevismouth was paying me then, but the beautiful Lucrezia prevented me from gaining a command post of any sort – no doubt she wanted no rivalry for her beloved Cesare –"

Aethan laughed. "A good thing you didn't become a rival for him."

Bran grimaced. "I can appreciate that now, but at the time it was incredibly frustrating. Contract or no, I was going to leave his service after the battle the next day – and then one of the men dragged Jareth in, bruised and battered, and accused him of spying for Southfells." He paused. "It was dark, you understand, and raining – there was mud everywhere. I didn't recognize him at first…"

"You didn't see the resemblance to me."

"No. I was given guard duty, but we were cold, tired and wet, and so we shared the fire, a skin of wine and an idle chat."

He stopped, turned to face Aethan, still, after so many years, baffled as to how he had been so thoroughly ensnared by this man's son. "Somehow, during that night, he convinced me to desert all of my principles and go with him into the west, to help him win not just estates but a kingdom…"

"And when you finally recognized him?"

Bran laughed a little bitterly, shrugged. "By then, it was too late." He looked up at the sky, then around him to his surroundings – the great castle, and beyond it the Labyrinth, and the Goblin Kingdom, stretching as far as the eye could see in all directions, bounded only by the encircling mountains.

Aethan seemed to understand. "He could not have done it without you, Bedwyr."

If it would have done any good at all, if it would have brought back anything at all of the past, if it would have assuaged even the least part of his fury and guilt, Bran would have killed him then. Simply for speaking that name, for bringing back Bedwyr son of Ban who had once been the right hand of another king, a king he had loved and whom he had, at Aethan's instigation, betrayed –

But, looking into those bicoloured eyes, standing in the gardens of the Kingdom he had won for his king, he knew it would be futile.

Bedwyr was dead and the past was gone.

He was Bran, now, and Jareth was his present.

"Come," he said finally, as the great bell in the clock tower rang eleven times, "I will take you to the King."

* * *

"You've upset him," Jareth said quizzically as Bran shut the door to his study. "I don't think I've seen him this deliberately impassive in centuries."

"A remarkable man," Aethan said noncommittally.

Jareth raised a brow. "Yes." He willed his father to meet his eyes. "But you knew that before you came here."

Two pairs of identical eyes locked. "One hears rumours, of course…"

"He hates you," Jareth said flatly. "Why?"

"My dear boy, did you summon me here today to speak of your second-in-command?" Aethan's voice was smooth, faintly amused, and utterly reasonable.

"No," Jareth admitted. "But if it affects the current situation…" If he had to watch for treachery from Bran, of all people, as well as from Aethan, Vane, Dante and gods knew who else…

"It doesn't." Aethan's voice was flat and utterly certain. "It is ancient history, and best forgotten."

Jareth did not believe that it was ancient history for Bran, but if Aethan was sure enough in his reading of Bran – and he had every confidence in his father's judgment – then he was prepared to accept his assurances.

"So," he said, returning to the original point of the meeting, "you seek an alliance with me against Vane."

Aethan smiled. "I offer my assistance in regaining the boy Toby."

That was not quite the same thing. But it was better than nothing, and they both knew that as long as the boy was in Vane's hands he was a knife poised for their backs.

"And then?"

"And then we send him back Aboveground where he belongs, so thoroughly warded he can never return."

Jareth raised both brows enquiringly. "And if we cannot send him Aboveground, or if the wards no longer conceal him? This is his second visit, and his first was as a very young child; even we may not be able to disguise that."

Aethan was silent, but Jareth understood him well enough. If they could not return Toby, or hide him from any who meant to use him – including them – then they would have to ensure he was permanently out of everybody's hands…

"His sister will never allow it."

"You can persuade her otherwise…" This time Aethan's voice was silky, intrusive, and all too persuasive – Jareth shook off its spell, and stood up abruptly, shocked.

Sarah stood in the doorway, her eyes hard and glittering with rage. "Persuade me of what, Jareth?" She asked dangerously. "And what won't I allow?"

* * *

"Oh no," she said very sweetly, "don't blame Owen. He couldn't stop me…"

By the very dark expression in Jareth's eyes, and the corresponding tightness in Owen's, it seemed that Owen would indeed be blamed. But at the moment Sarah didn't care – she was too incensed that Jareth and Aethan had been having secret discussions behind her back, making vital decisions about Toby without consulting her first.

And from what she had just heard, it was a very good thing that she had interrupted.

"What won't I allow, Jareth?" She repeated, her voice very low and intense. "Why don't you tell me what you've got planned for me and Toby?"

They did not even have the decency to look guilty. Those two frighteningly similar faces wore identical expressions of surprised hauteur, as though her offence of breaking in on their meeting had been worse than their cold-blooded plan to kill Toby.

Oh, she knew what they had been implying. She had thought that Aethan, at least, would have some sort of humanity – but she was beginning to think that she had misjudged him.

"Owen," the Goblin King flicked a hand, dismissing him. "I will speak to you later."

Her erstwhile guide and protector, who had tried so hard to distract her attention and to keep her from this meeting, bowed gravely and left.

"What will you do to him?" she asked, putting up her chin.

Slowly, he eased back into his chair, once more becoming the graceful, lethal predator she remembered. "I will not toss him headfirst into the Bog; though no doubt you think that the worst I could possibly do to him."

"Well, isn't it?" she parried.

He smiled cruelly, showing his sharp, pointed teeth. "Oh, Sweet Sarah… No, it is not. There are worse things than smelling like a midden for the rest of your life. Just ask your friends…"

Sarah went pale, all the blood rushing from her face, as she thought of her three friends. She had gradually lost contact with them after the first year or so after she'd returned from her first adventure; after she stopped believing in them, she'd never given them another thought.

Until now.

"What have you done to them?" she demanded, her voice shaking.

"I exiled them," he said, voice quick and cruel and iron hard. "They chose another allegiance, and so I set them free to follow their new Lady."

If it was at all possible, she went even paler. "But that means… But Huw said… They were all Exiles, weren't they?"

"Indeed they were. And now they are exiles from even the Goblin Kingdom. Unless, of course, you took them in as you promised, Sarah? Isn't that what friends do?"

She was shaking now, chilled and shocked and half-hysterical. All of her previous poise was gone, and Aethan, watching this deliberate destruction – and distraction – with an objective eye, could only appreciate Jareth's skill.

"Who knows what has happened to them since then? An old, cowardly dwarf, a fox with more bravado than sense, and a dim-witted giant – and they won't be facing brainless goblin guards, either. They'll be prey for everything…"

She pressed her hands to her mouth, stifling her whimpering as that vicious, precise voice continued implacably on, ripping apart the last shreds of her superior disbelief in her childhood playmates, lashing her with guilt that she had accepted their help and then abandoned them, leaving them to face the consequences alone because she had decided not to believe in them anymore…

"Stop it!" She shouted. "Stop it!"

But he wouldn't stop. "And poor Owen, of course, will be even more vulnerable – he's half human, you know, and outside of the Goblin Kingdom there is scarce acceptance for such half-breeds. A pity that you had to take him from the only safety he's ever found in his whole life, but I suppose that he should be able to survive – for a time – before he's hunted down and killed…"

Aethan wondered if she knew that such prejudice had all but died out in the past two centuries, now that more and more changelings had been taken from the newly oblivious human world. It now survived only in the most isolated, old-fashioned corners of the Aboveground – but besides all that, he had never seen a less vulnerable half-breed than Owen, who was one of Jareth's best men, and nor was Jareth likely to exile him for failing to control his willful charge. If Jareth himself could not have controlled her, then he would not expect his men to be able to do so.

"But of course, Sweet Sarah, you know you can help poor Owen, if you feel so guilty…"

Her devastated, tear-drenched eyes flew desperately to his, clearly seeking reassurance. Now that he had broken her down, he set about building her up again, taking advantage of this – very short lived, he had no doubt of it – period of vulnerability.

"I'm afraid it's too late for your friends, Sarah, but I'll spare Owen exile if you publicly promise to obey me by swearing an oath of allegiance…"

His voice was reassuring now, soothing and somehow fatherly, and Aethan could see Sarah responding to it, see how it overtook her reason and the strength of will that had once prompted her to deny him any power over her. Well, if this persuasion succeeded, she would give him every single bit of herself –

And thus nullify any bargaining power that Aethan may have gained from presenting her to Jareth himself.

He moved to interfere, half for the poor girl's sake and half for his own, because he had no wish to see this woman irrevocably bound to his son – he was powerful enough as it was – but encountered a feral, alien glance that stopped him in his tracks. Jareth wanted this moment, this psychological manipulation, far more than the political advantage it represented – he wanted it for himself.

And then, as they stood there crossing wills, Sarah nodded her agreement to Jareth's bargain.

And so sealed her fate.

* * *

A/N – Thanks to all those who have stuck with me on this story. I know the updates are infrequent, but I have no intention of abandoning it. Thanks for all your comments and feedback, it is greatly appreciated.

Quick self-advertisement – I also have a small one-shot side story to this, called Consequences. Please go and check it out.


	15. Transition

A/N: Jareth finally brings Sarah to her knees. Also, a vow of fealty and allegiance, an unwelcome interruption, and a sanctioned assassination.

Solea – in response to your wonderful review, I can only say that Sarah was not thinking clearly when she promised the Winged OFC anything – I'm blaming her excessive confusion on a small, undetectable and quite deliberate charm. I put the OFC in as a wildcard, thinking I might make use of her later, but as you said she doesn't quite fit in. So I have taken your advice – in this chapter, you'll see what I've done with her and I hope you approve. Thanks very much.

And thank you to all others who have also reviewed. Feedback is truly appreciated.

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth or any of its characters. However I do own the OCs in this fic, and I'm willing to rent out Aethan and Bran for large sums of money.

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Chapter 15 – Transition

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In the great hall of the Castle beyond the Goblin City, before all the assembled representatives and lords of the Goblin Kingdom, Sarah Williams bent knee to Jareth and swore allegiance to him, accepting him as her overlord and protector. Even the goblins watched, their fleeting attention spans and limited intellect able to appreciate the importance of the occasion, if not its true significance.

Jareth found there was something fundamentally satisfying about seeing Sarah on her knees before him. As she spoke the words of the oath of allegiance, something raw and bleeding inside of him – his ego, his mind whispered – was soothed and salved, and the world that had been slightly off-centre since she had first rejected him regained its customary balance.

Or perhaps, rather than ego, it was simply that she was a part of the Goblin Kingdom and the Labyrinth now, and she had finally returned to her rightful place in the world. Whatever the reason, it was right and good that she pledge herself to him in this way.

His Exiles were pleased that he had some sort of control over the woman who had defeated the Labyrinth. His goblins were pleased that the Lady, as they had taken to calling her – they had primitive memories and oral mythologies, and she had earned herself a starring role in several of their myths – had returned to them, and believed that she would soon take her rightful place at the Lord's – his – side.

In fact, the only people who were not pleased by this were Bran and Aethan, their disapproval uniting them as nothing else ever would. But, influential and important as they were to him, he simply could not pass over this chance to secure her loyalty. Some things were too important to reject, and Sarah's allegiance was one of them. She could protest all she liked about duress and false promises, but the vow was older than time and binding until death – once spoken, the consequences for treachery were unthinkable…

_What's said is said._

As he rose to his feet and took her hands in his own, reciting his own part of the oath – loyalty, as with so many other things in this life, was double-edged – he could feel her resentment and her anger at the trick she thought he was playing on her. But in all his long, capricious, less than virtuous life, nothing had ever been more important to him than this –

Gods of Earth and Sky, this was no frivolous joke…

* * *

Far, far away, in another world, there was a green park, and a stone bridge spanning a small, placid stream. The bridge had been there far longer than most people knew, and had been the home, since the beginning, of Ceinwyn, the winged lady. Once, long ago, Jareth had thought her marginally attractive and had taken her to bed, and Ceinwyn, her vanity supremely gratified at this attention from one of the great Lords, had never forgotten it.

Jareth had never given her another thought, but she had never stopped hoping, dreaming, building obsessive fantasies around him…

Until she met the mortal girl Sarah, who had gained the Goblin King's exclusive attention – it was then that her relatively benign obsession turned dangerous. She allowed the small folk to tempt the young boy with promises of fantasy and adventure, seducing him into giving into Vane's subconscious compulsion. She assisted Vane in his crossing over, allowing him to come through the barrier that normally only Jareth ever used. And she put a small charm of befuddlement and confusion on Sarah, clouding her normal thought processes so that she agreed to the open ended promise in return for Toby's location.

"_What price are you asking?"_

"_Nothing too onerous, sweet Sarah. A small favour, nothing more, nothing less, and at a time of my choosing."_

And then the mortal had called on Aethan, of all people, to take her to the Underground, and Ceinwyn had marveled at the girl's naiveté. However, recently her informants in Jareth's court – her stream flowed through the Underground as well as the Aboveground, and some part of it flowed through the Goblin Kingdom – had brought her the shocking news that Sarah had somehow, in some way, been reunited with the Goblin King, and was about to swear fealty to him. They also spoke to her of Aethan's reconciliation with his son, and the coalition they were forming together – news that certain recipients would pay handsomely for, had she had been inclined to play that role. But, for all her faults, Ceinywn was motivated not by power and politics, but by her own personal obsessions – what did she care for statecraft, when Jareth was about to bind himself and the mortal woman in an irrevocable symbiosis?

In a fit of rage and determination, she gathered all of her strength and passed through the barrier to the Underground, tearing free of the mortal, physical plane, willing herself to materialize at the edge of the Labyrinth. There were magical wards around the Goblin City and the Castle, preventing instantaneous teleportation – but she had a magical connection to the mortal woman, and she used it to teleport herself to the great hall.

As her vision flickered back into focus and her body materialized again, she could see the court on their feet and a swift black shadow heading her way – she managed to throw herself backwards just before Bran's sword took off her head. As it was, she hit the ground and found herself at his feet anyway, her neck frozen as the razor sharp blade descended to rest against the hollow of her throat.

"Explain yourself," he said very, very softly.

She swallowed with great care, but the sword did not waver – as her throat moved, she nicked herself on the blade. Her heart beat frantically – somehow she had never quite envisioned this, when she'd spun fantasies of Jareth and herself. She'd never thought that she'd have to contend with his watchdogs…

"Let her up, Bran," spoke the familiar, thrilling voice. "I know who she is."

Slowly, reluctantly, Bran put up his sword. She gathered herself together with great dignity and stood up, slowly, taking her surroundings in – she was in the throne room of the Castle, and it seemed she had interrupted some sort of ceremony. There were representatives from all over the Goblin Kingdom present, and black-clad Exiles, most of them staring at her suspiciously, their hands very close to their weapons.

And then she turned to Jareth, her eyes drinking in his familiar appearance, his regal, commanding presence and the air of power that surrounded him like a crackling aura. There was a woman kneeling in front of him, turned around so that she could see what was going on – with a jolt, she recognized Sarah, and she knew that she was too late, that Sarah had already sworn her allegiance to Jareth and that she had lost all.

No. Not all. There was still Sarah's promise…

"What are you doing here, Ceinwyn?" the Goblin King asked. He did not sound pleased to see her.

Nevertheless, she held her head high. "I have come to collect on what I am owed."

Sarah cringed and looked wary. Jareth raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Less than a week ago, the mortal woman Sarah promised me a favour. I have come to collect it."

Jareth flicked a look at Sarah. "Is this true?" he asked quietly. Sarah did not look at him, but nodded – all her focus was reserved for Ceinwyn, in the form of a very dark, dangerous warning glare. Engrossed in staring at each other, the two women did not see the swift glance exchanged by Jareth and Bran, and their focus on Aethan, who was suddenly looking thoughtful.

"I am owed a favour, Goblin King," she said with vindictive satisfaction. "In your own words, what's said is said."

Jareth's expression set like stone. He had spent far too long anticipating this moment, and nothing – nothing at all – was going to interrupt him, most especially not Sarah's foolishness. It was fortunate, though, that she had already finished swearing her vow…

"No," he said. "You are owed nothing."

Ceinwyn was honestly shocked. "What!" This went against all the rules of honour and magic. A debt could not be so summarily dismissed, not by the Goblin King, not even by the High King himself.

"Sarah is mine now," he said quietly. "I accepted her fealty, and she accepted my protection – she is now an Exile from her homeland. All former ties to it are severed, all former sins and debts forgiven."

Goblin King. Lord of Outcasts and Exiles. The Goblin Kingdom was a place of sanctuary for even the most notorious of criminals and outcasts…

"You cannot do this," she breathed, outraged. "Not even you! You have no right to do this!"

Sarah looked extremely puzzled, but seemed willing to accept Jareth's ruling as fact. The other denizens of the Underground, more versed in lore and custom, looked more doubtful but were not willing to challenge the lord in his own stronghold. And Aethan and Bran looked coldly approving – Bran because he had never quite liked her and had always thought her a security threat and Aethan because if Jareth got away with this, it would create a most intriguing precedent…

Once, the High King may have been able to overturn Jareth's peremptory pronouncement. Once, the Underground had been united and peaceful and justice and mercy had flowed from the High King's Seat, but that had been long ago, and none now would challenge a lord's own control over his vassals, especially when the accuser was a small, petty river fairy who was, essentially, nothing more than a jealous ex-lover.

Sensing her defeat, her lips twisted and she snarled, hysteria and rage bubbling and erupting inside her, and she threw out her power and malice towards Sarah, trying with all her might to do her harm – but encountered a shield of Jareth's own magic which stopped hers cold. The sheer control and power contained in that shield shocked her – never before had it been brought home to her quite so effectively the differences between the sidhe Lords and the small folk, the petty fae. Compared to Jareth's strength, her own power was utterly miniscule, and her will counted for nothing when set against his…

Nevertheless, driven past rationality, she drew herself up and played her final card. "If you will not grant me what I am owed," she hissed dangerously, "then perhaps others will."

Jareth turned the full force of his gaze upon her, but she stood straight and tall, meeting his eyes resolutely. She held them even as he stalked closer, the force of his power swirling around him, thickening the air like a rising storm.

"Others?" he repeated, very, very softly.

"There are those," she said spitefully, "who will be grateful for what I can tell them of today's occurrences." The look in his eyes frightened her, but she swallowed and went on. "The River, my father, runs through most of the Kingdoms of the Underground: through Summer, through the High King's own domain, and even through Winter – one whisper and the news will spread like water throughout the land…"

Jareth reached out and put his warm, firm hands on her shoulders. She shivered with illicit delight and half-closed her eyes, but then his grip tightened painfully and his eyes shifted over her left shoulder, and he nodded…

Too late she remembered Bran.

The cold, tempered steel bit into her with an icy shock, sliding in between her ribs and straight up into her heart, immobilizing her immediately. Her mouth gaped open and she tried to draw breath one last time, to voice the whisper that would ruin him, but Jareth put two long, elegant white fingers against her lips, silencing her forever…

And then her vision blurred, and failed, and then everything went black.

* * *

The great hall had cleared, all the representatives and witnesses choosing to fade discreetly away, and only the Exiles and the principle actors in this little drama remained.

Sarah looked down at the broken, crumpled form of the winged lady. "You killed her," she said absently, still in shock.

Bran took a white handkerchief out of his tunic pocket and wiped the blood off his sword. "Yes," he said, in his dry, detached tone, "and I'd kill her again if I had to. She could have ruined us all."

"Whatever possessed you to grant her such an open-ended oath?" Aethan asked, as if he were truly interested.

Grateful for the diversion, she frowned and tried to remember. "I don't know. I knew that I had to do something right then and there, that I had no time and no choice. There was an incredible sense of urgency…"

"Ceinwyn," Jareth confirmed. "She always did have a talent for small distracting charms. But who knows what she thought she would get out of you – surely she knew you would have powerful protectors?"

Huw, who had not been pleased to hear Jareth's peremptory edict canceling Sarah's debt, flushed and said hotly, "Her protectors should not have mattered. She swore an oath…!"

Jareth looked at him and tilted a brow. "Don't worry, Huw," he said with callous humour, "the matter would appear to be entirely irrelevant now…"

Huw went white, his lips tightened grimly and his eyes flared, but he said nothing. Aethan laughed softly and put an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and he subsided with reluctant good grace. Sarah looked briefly sick, but she was more relieved than anything else – and with that, they abandoned the matter and moved back into the council rooms, to make plans for reclaiming Toby, beloved brother and vital pawn.

* * *

So, that ends the first part of this fic – all characters are now in place and read for stage two, reclaiming Toby. 


	16. The Council of Lords

A/N – Here beginneth the second part of the story. This chapter is another short one, just to get me back into the swing of it; I wanted to do a Congress of Vienna type scene, and to move the High King along a bit further.

General question: Does anyone like the High King?

Disclaimer – I don't own Jareth, Sarah, Toby or the Labyrinth. Don't sue.

* * *

Chapter 16 – the Council of Lords

* * *

"…My Lords and Ladies, the creation of a single, unifying currency that will bring together the two warring kingdoms of Wysteron and Samarkand is, I need not tell you, a matter of the utmost importance…"

Jareth lounged in his seat, staring straight ahead with glazed, unseeing eyes, to all intents and purposes mesmerised by the Wysteronian speaker's eloquence. His neighbour, the Sulawesi ambassador, leaned over and said, sotto voce, "How many times has this come up in the last four hundred years? Surely they know neither Summer nor Winter will ever stand for an economic alliance between those two."

Jareth said nothing. But it was true enough – the separate kingdoms of Wysteron and Samarkand had been created by the partition of an ancient, decaying kingdom after the end of the last wars. It had suited the great powers at the time to keep the two new kingdoms divided and at each other's throats, because along their shared border lay the greatest deposits of silver – pure, magic-conducting silver – outside the control of Summer and Winter. Any alliance between them could seriously tip the balance of the thousand-year détente.

"It has been centuries since this Council has decided anything of real merit," the ambassador continued discreetly.

Jareth turned his head slightly, still appearing to be engrossed in the matter of shared coinage. "Dangerous words, ambassador."

"They are nothing more than what you've said before, openly. You are the leader of the independent kingdoms, and you've spoken against the unnatural deadlock more than once." He lowered his voice. "Perhaps, now, there will be a chance to do something about it…"

Jareth smiled absently as the ambassador very carefully refrained from glancing at the High King's Seat, the focal point of the great circular Council chamber. When he had promised Dante his support, he'd had every intention of playing Kingmaker, of becoming the next power behind the throne. But that had been before Aethan discovered his intentions and tried to use Sarah as a balance against him, before Vane took Toby for a balance against Aethan and himself, and as a perfect inducement for an ambitious High King. The hag had been most informative.

And now, he had to balance his own kingdom and wellbeing against the restoration of the High Kingship. Sarah was securely his, now, but would remain so only on the promise that he would regain Toby, who was simultaneously the greatest threat to the Labyrinth and the High King's greatest hope. Aethan only supported him on the understanding that they would find Toby and send him back Aboveground – he would be bitterly opposed to any attempt to restore Dante.

There were times when Jareth felt like a doll pulled in too many directions by too many children: his kingdom, his father, Sarah, the High King, the independent kingdoms…

* * *

"Why are we wasting our time here?" Sarah demanded, pacing restlessly up and down. "Your famous Council of Lords is a bunch of old men talking endlessly about nothing. Why don't we do something?"

Jareth eyed her in some amusement. "Sarah," he said patiently, "we won't be able to do anything if the rival Kings become aware of your brother's presence, and of his previous trip to the Underground. He'll become a prize –"

Half-human Owen grinned. "Worth at least a thousand ships."

Jareth and Bran looked at him. He sobered immediately.

"As I was saying," Jareth continued, "normally humans who have come seeking changelings – those who did not wish their siblings away – go to the Council. But we cannot allow the Council to become aware of Toby's potential, and so we cannot denounce Vane for kidnapping him."

"Then what are we doing here?" Sarah asked impatiently. "You said you would help me find him!"

"And so I will, Sarah," he said icily. "But we must be patient. A wrong move here could tip the balance –"

"Tip the balance of what?" she began to demand, but something in Jareth's eyes stopped her.

When he spoke again, he was no longer the elusive, deceptive Goblin King. His eyes were flat and determined, and he was standing straight, no longer posing, no longer acting. "Sarah, do you understand the value that a child twice-returned has? There will be war – and not just war between two neighbouring countries, but war throughout the whole Underground. If you have not seen war on such a large scale, then I have, and I have absolutely no intention of seeing it again."

* * *

He said as much later on, at one of the many balls and entertainments that provided the opportunities for the true business of the Council to occur. Most often, the important issues were not decided on the Council floor, but at a ball, under cover of the flutes and violins.

Aethan, resplendent in black and silver, his white hair pulled back into a severe queue, drifted over to him on the hostess' arm, the magnificent redheaded wife of the prince of Conde. She lingered a while, avid to witness some fascinating bit of scandal born of the long-running, well-documented feud between father and son, but departed disappointed when it became clear they were behaving with the utmost civility.

"A crimson vulture," Aethan said half-appreciatively, staring at her as she went.

Jareth cocked a brow. "A scandal vulture, ready to pick the bones of our quarrel. –Shall we become reconciled, then? It will prove a brilliant diversion."

Aethan turned to him, smiling slowly. "You _are _vexed. I thought so. Is it sweet Sarah? What crime have you committed this time?"

"A crime of omission. I do not move quickly enough, preferring to waste my time arguing with old men, over ancient issues of currency."

"Wysteron and Samarkand; yes, I heard." They grinned, then, both of them, fair and radiant, and for a single moment gloriously similar. "I also heard that you had converse with the Sulawesi ambassador."

Jareth's smile died. "He did not think well of their chances for a single currency."

"No one does. I have heard it said," he mused, "that they will only gain true justice when the true High King sits once more in judgment…"

"Dangerous words, Father," Jareth said, a deliberate, ironic echo.

"Indeed they were. The unfortunate speaker disappeared into the custody of the Winter King's bureau of Public Safety – is that not what the mortals call it? What think you?"

"Of true justice?"

"I know your thoughts on true justice. Of Winter's dungeons."

"I think," he said deliberately, "that there are larger and more immediate issues before us than Wysteron and Samarkand, or even the attainment of true justice. Hence the reason for my vexation, as you said in the very beginning."

Aethan dropped some of his mockery. "A game like this can play out over centuries among our kind, Jareth. She only has eighty years."

"It is not a game to her," Jareth said quietly. "Nor, in truth, to me – I remember the war."

There were many things Aethan could have said to that. He knew it, and Jareth knew it, and they both remembered the last, shattering argument, before Jareth left his father's house for the last time and went out into the world, setting in motion the events that would irreversibly lead to all-encompassing war.

The truth was that father and son were all too alike.

"Do you ever tire of preserving order and balance, Father?" he asked. "Is it not a thankless job?"

"Your brothers think me heartless," Aethan answered. "Caeth oversees the estate, and Ophir lives in the old cottage, both of them with their wives and their children, and they rejoice in the peace and sunlight they think will last forever. If they think of you and I at all, it is as entities alien, separate to their lives –"

"Blind," Jareth said, but with no real force. "Willfully blind, as always."

"They are happy," Aethan corrected. "Perhaps that is more important."

* * *

A stirring, by the door, and as the lords and ladies turned as one, there was a brazen fanfare and a royal herald, ceremoniously thumping his staff, once, twice, thrice on the floor.

"The High King!" he intoned sonorously, and there was a flurry of low bows and curtsies, eyes respectfully lowered, as Dante Andenais, the High King of the Underground, entered the room.

Aethan, the consummate courtier, bowed gracefully, showing no sign of any resentment or irony. Jareth, who rarely bowed to anyone's will but his own, was far less comfortable – but, he suspected, far more sincere. He waited for the High King's quick, almost flustered general permission to rise _(please, lords and ladies, rise, rise, no formalities) _but this time, it did not come. For centuries, Dante had shunned the rigid formality and etiquette of the court that dictated full obeisance and gave him full precedence.

But now, something had changed.

He made them wait. Powerful lords and influential ladies, the key movers and shakers of the Underground, he made them hold their bows and curtsies while he walked among them, proving a point more effectively than any proclamation.

No one stood, defying him, although there were almost certainly a few there who actively considered it. He walked slowly to the dais in the centre of the room, where a token seat had been left out for him just as he had been included, perfunctorily, in the invitation, and sat down. Then, and only then, did he give them permission to rise.

Slowly the gathering rose, and, very conscious of the royal gaze upon them, went back to their former business. But Jareth noticed that a fair number of those who had been speaking together in dark corners, and who had made haste to separate before the High King could note them, did not go back to their conversations –

"This is something surprising," Aethan breathed, his eyes watching the man he and Vane had all but deposed. "He means to rule."

Jareth said nothing.

"I see your hand in this, my son." There was, if anything, genuine admiration in his father's voice now. "It is unfortunate, though, that circumstances have changed so. You could have ruled him."

"Yes," Jareth said, rueful and ironic in the flowering of his changed plans. "Vane has the most damnable timing…"

* * *

"Balls," Sarah said crossly, drumming her fingers impatiently on the table. "Routs, masquerades, soirees, and champagne breakfasts. When do they have time to get anything done?"

"You'd be surprised at what can be achieved at a champagne breakfast," Bran said dryly, slowly polishing a silver belt dagger with a rag. "Especially when you are sober, and the other man is drunk, or still hung-over."

She sighed. "I always thought the Underground would be exotic and mysterious. You know, deep untouched forests, misty mountains, beautiful, dangerous Goblin Kings – now I find the Congress of Vienna and Henry Kissinger."

Bran did not look up from his immaculate dagger. "Politics is universal, Sarah, whether above ground or under it. As to the extent that the Underground is influenced by your world, and vice versa – isn't there a human story about a man, and a butterfly?"

She eyed him skeptically. "I thought Owen was the Aboveground scholar."

"Owen," Bran said, "was born of a silly, romantic girl who preferred fantasy to the real world. Does it sound familiar?"

"You don't like me."

"I don't like you. I don't like the trouble you bring with you, or your preconceptions and expectations of Jareth. Even now, after so long, you do not see him as he is."

"How can I?" she retorted. "I've hardly spoken to him in weeks. And besides, I don't think anyone knows him as he truly is."

"He is," Bran said, finally laying aside the dagger, "a man committed to the welfare of his people. And to ensure their continued welfare, it is necessary that he play politics."

"I think you have preconceptions of your own," she said, with great daring. He lifted his eyes to hers, those flat, cool, forceful grey eyes, and she forced herself not to look away.

"I have no idea what he sees in you," he finally said, voice soft and thoughtful. "Or why he would go to such great lengths to keep you."

Suddenly, Sarah was tired of the intrigue, of the secrecy, of the constant tensions and unexplained silences. "I just want my brother back," she almost pleaded. "That's all I want. I never asked to be caught up in this; I just want to go home…"

If she expected him to relent, his face and eyes to soften with sudden compassion, she was disappointed. If anything, he became even harder. "Only children seek to turn back the clock. We can none of us go home, Sarah Williams. And when you finally come to accept that, we will talk further."

* * *

A/N – Thanks to all my reviewers. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.


	17. Council of Lords II

A/N – Another chapter, this one focusing more strongly on the action and interactions at the Council of Lords. I also introduce the Winter King, Donn, because I am the author and I feel like it. For those who have missed him, this chapter also contains Vane.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Don't sue. I have also borrowed an irresistible phrase from George R. R Martin. For those who have not heard of the Stark family, their motto is 'Winter is Coming'.

* * *

Chapter 17 – Council of Lords II

_

* * *

_

_Winter is coming…_

The Winter King's entourage swept through the halls of the High King's palace, garbed in black and grey and silver. With them came a palpable sense of menace and foreboding – a skilful illusion, but an effective one – and a flurry of whispers and rumour. For the first time in four hundred years, the King himself was attending the Council – Black Donn, who had murdered his elder brothers to gain the throne.

The whisperers and the rumourmongers debated the implications of his presence and what it might mean for the High King's bid for independence. The policy makers and the personal advisers hastily reworked their plans to accommodate his presence. The palace guards and those tasked with the security of their lords doubled their patrols and increased their vigilance until they jumped at shadows.

And Jareth and Aethan turned their eyes to Vane, in his lord's shadow, and wondered whether he had been so bold as to bring Toby to the Council.

* * *

Black haired, with fine, pale skin and dark, fathomless eyes, the Winter King lived up to his sobriquet. Not for the first time, Vane watched him and thought that he was everything a king should be – strong and ruthless, imposing and charismatic. The rest of the Underground may think him an iron-fisted tyrant who mercilessly eliminated all signs of rebellion in his lands – well, and what of it? How else was he to rule, if he did not impose his will on all his subjects, not just the obedient ones? 

Winter's opponents may speak all they liked of _mercy _and _benevolence, _of Summer's more lenient treatment of their rebels; Donn would rather be a great king, a strong king, than a benevolent one. And those who called Cormack Ruagh a benevolent king had obviously never fallen afoul of Aethan…

"Well, cousin," the king said, standing at the window with his hands clasped behind his back, "what is so important that you drag me out to this mausoleum? I have better things to do than listen to fools and old men talk; that is why I have you."

Vane bowed his head at the deceptively good natured rebuke. That was indeed Vane's function, to stand in for the public appearances and the diplomatic wrangling his king so hated. However… "Surely you have heard the rumours," he said quietly.

"I have, and I don't believe them. Dante manoeuvring for real power, yes, he's been aiming at that for centuries. But that's not enough, in itself, to justify your impertinence, Vane. Jareth and his father will never join forces, not after what that young fool did to his brothers –"

"There is a child," he interrupted, as respectfully as he could. "Twice-returned."

That gave the king pause. "Twice-returned? I thought it was impossible…"

"No, my lord. Ten years ago, a child was wished away by his irresponsible sister. She ran the Labyrinth, and bested it; as per all the laws, she regained the child."

For the first time, the king turned away from the window to stare at Vane. "I have heard nothing of this."

"Ten years it took me to find out the truth," Vane said, remembering the months of tracking down dead end after dead end. The Exiles were notoriously close-mouthed and fiercely loyal – the Goblin King covered his tracks well. "She defeated the Labyrinth, which no one else has ever done before, and then she and the babe returned to the Aboveground wrapped in the strongest concealment spells I have ever encountered."

The king smiled grimly. "No one has ever doubted Jareth's power, cousin. Least of all you – why, then, have you meddled in this matter?"

"Because Dante also heard this rumour."

Vane looked up into those black, black eyes and held them without flinching. He had acted for the good of his kingdom –

"And how did Dante come to learn of this child? Did you tell him?"

"Yes. He believes in the prophecy."

The king's mouth tightened and he swung away in frustration. "That godsdamned prophecy – I thought that you had quashed it! Surely after a thousand years you and the Grey Lord both can silence the ravings of one mad prophet?"

"He will do anything to regain his independence, my king. Anything, even grant concessions his advisers may think unwise…"

"That headstrong fool has no advisers. He listens to whoever speaks latest to him – can I take it you have been filling his head with this nonsense? This balance has lasted a thousand years, Vane, why do you seek to tip it now?"

"You said it yourself, it is a balance. An artificially contrived balance – there is no progress, no growth, while Summer and Winter are deadlocked into equality. Something must change, lest we rot in this impasse forever!" He modulated his voice as he received a sharp, impatient look. "If we can pull the High King's strings…"

"And if this prophecy should prove true?"

He threw it out as an irritating non sequitur, more to relieve his irritation than as a real possibility. No one, among the great lords and puppet masters of the elite at the Council, truly believed in the naïve words of a raving madman. The age of miracles, great quests and eternal heroes was long, long gone. As much as the Underground was a reflection of the Aboveground's dreams, the reverse was just as true…

The Winter King shook his head, dismissing his words as irrelevant. "No matter. Better I should ask if Jareth knows you have the babe."

"Of that, my lord," he said truthfully, "I am not so sure – it is said that the Goblin King is closest to the barrier between Above and Below, that he can feel all those who crossover, especially if they bring another back with them. But that is only rumour..."

"I would not discount the possibility. Watch him carefully, then, during the Council. If there is any indication that he knows, then we will decide how to act… You are sure that Jareth and Aethan have joined forces?" he asked, not at all pleased by the possibility.

"I am sure of it."

The king swore, not at all pleased the news. He had spent much time and effort ensuring the continuation of that particular breach. "We will decide what to do when and if it comes to that. For now, simply discover whether he knows what you have done." He indicated his dismissal, but then paused. "And Vane," he said, as Vane halted in mid-bow, "I have given you a great deal of leeway over the centuries. Don't make me reconsider my decision…"

"Yes, my lord," Vane said. He straightened, and went out.

Not even in his closest advisors would the Winter King brook rebellion. And that was as it should be.

* * *

On the opposite side of the palace, in apartments furnished in russet and green and gold, another king called another adviser to account.

"What mad scheme are you hatching now, Aethan?" Cormack Ruagh demanded, pacing impatiently around the room. "Rumour speaks of reconciliation with your son – even the pundits on the street have remarked on it. And now Winter comes to the Council, for the first time in four centuries."

"My lord forgets our divine sovereign's show of independence," Aethan said mildly, standing still while his king circled him, scowling.

"No, by the gods, I haven't forgotten it!" The king thumped his fist down on a side table, his magnificent copper beard bristling. "I had to bow to the impertinent pup yesterday. I, the King of Summer, bow to a whelp of a boy who thinks he can take the Underground for himself –"

"You did not resent your obeisance to his father, though."

"Aye," he replied, stroking his beard and smiling reminiscently, his eyes flashing with delight. "But Llacheu, he was a man, and a strong, sure one. This Dante – I don't like his eyes. He hides them when he speaks."

Privately, Aethan thought that Dante might indeed have cause to resort to intrigue. His father had been an honest, honourable man and a steady High King, but he had been too good, too honourable, and thus he had lost control, when war tore the entire Underground apart.

In a way, the late High King had been a man very like Cormack, and Aethan did not intend to see his own king fall in the same way. Swift and mercurial, the king's moods could change in an eye-blink from blustering rage to roaring good humour, from jovial comradeship to grim determination. Although he was a subtle, canny, perceptive ruler, with a great deal of ambition, he was not truly capable of the shadowy, dishonourable double-dealing that kings must sometimes resort to –

Thus Aethan, always at his side, in the shadows, ready to take upon himself those deeds the king did not want to acknowledge. As the King's first adviser, he was the most influential man in the Summerlands, and he used that power to ensure that any threats to his lord's rule were discreetly, but permanently eliminated.

"Don't try to distract me, Aethan," the king growled. "Why now, this bid for independence? Does he finally have enough support? If so, why haven't they tipped their hand yet? And what _are _you doing with the Goblin King?"

Aethan bowed his head, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his grey robes. A minor affectation, one that amused the king and irritated others.

"I understand," he began smoothly, "that Dante had indeed succeeded in gathering a coalition, however, it seems one of the key members has only very recently pulled out –"

"Jareth," Cormack breathed, sitting down and smiling broadly. "How did you do it? He's been one of Dante's strongest supporters for years…"

Aethan managed to look suitably modest. "We came to a mutually beneficial agreement."

"And what of Winter's arrival?"

Indeed. 'What of Winter' was the game that everyone was playing now, wondering what Vane deemed so important that he would drag his notoriously impatient king so far from his capital at such short notice.

It had to be the boy, and his sister, and the whole mad tangle that was dangerously close to spinning out of everyone's control. The girl was impatient for action of any kind, was pushing hard on Jareth's patience and Bran's tolerance. He'd seen her, pacing, her eyes dark and determined, and he knew that they could not keep her quiet forever. A girl who had solved the labyrinth with sheer determination, some wit and a good dose of luck would not balk at eluding her guards and going straight to the Council, announcing her grievance.

She would not even think of the consequences –

Had Vane held out the boy to the High King? Was it on Donn's orders?

What would Dante give for possession of the boy? (What _wouldn't _he give?)

Did anyone else know?

They _must _keep this boy secret from the rest of the Underground.

"No doubt, my king, he has come to squash Dante's delusions of grandeur. I would say, given the mood of the Non-aligned and the lesser kingdoms, that it would be best if we let him do it and be seen as the villain…"

Cormack Ruagh grinned, stroking his beard, and then he began to laugh, deep, rolling chuckles that were so indicative of his true nature. "By the gods, man, you're a cunning one. I like your thinking."

Once again, Aethan bowed modestly. But as he straightened, meeting his king's eyes as Cormack always insisted, he saw that those eyes were not, as he had thought, entirely given over to mirth; he saw caution, and watchfulness, and the still well of strength that said this man was a king, this man _ruled_.

"Whatever you're doing, Aethan, make sure it doesn't come back to haunt us," he said quietly, making sure that his message got across. "And be very, very sure where your ultimate loyalty lies. I know how much you loved Jareth – but remember that he is _your _son. You remember what he did to his own brothers."

"I remember," Aethan answered. "I remember that he could not do it, in the end." Suddenly he smiled, sad, sweet, wry, and iron hard all at once. "Myself, I would have killed them."

* * *

"A masquerade?" Sarah repeated, her eyes wide and incredulous. "You can't be serious."

"Why, Sarah," Jareth raised an eyebrow, grinning, his sharp teeth glinting in the light. "Don't you trust me? After all, this time you are all grown up. Perhaps you'll be old enough to handle the revellers, this time."

She bristled at the memory of the peach-fantasy. But he was right: at fifteen, her fantasies had included sweeping gowns, huge ballrooms and handsome princes – the masquerade Jareth had given her had been surreal, twisted, and more than a little depraved. She'd been sincerely shocked, and secretly, reluctantly intrigued, but mostly she'd just been frightened. It had been too much for her.

But she was twenty-five years old, now; she was a strong, confident woman, not a nervous, insecure girl, or a romantic virgin.

"Why me, though? I thought I wasn't supposed to venture outside our rooms, in case someone saw me."

"Sarah," he said, "at Lady Nevismouth's masquerade, no one will care whether you are human, sidhe or even dwarf kind. She is well known for the…openness of her hospitality – even among such licentious people as we are, she is notorious."

She smiled. "Personal experience?"

Strangely, he shook his head, his mouth grim. "No. The woman is poison. I would not touch her with a…" he trailed off, eyes flicking to Bran, who looked just as grim. "However, she and her brother provide, in their masquerades, an opportunity for covert meetings that would otherwise cause a firestorm of comment. If we are to confront Vane, it must be there."

"But what if he recognises me?"

"That is precisely the point," he said, grinning again. "If he does, then he will know we're aware of his plans, and perhaps we can find out something from his reactions. And if he doesn't recognise you – although I doubt that it will happen – then there will be problem."

Sarah thought it over, nodding slowly. At last, she had a chance to take action, rather than sitting and waiting while Jareth and Aethan's spies searched the Winter kingdoms with a nerve-wracking lack of speed. She'd been going crazy, cooped up in these apartments with no one but Bran, Caede, Owen and the other exiles for company. Nor could she deny that there was a certain fascination at the thought of attending a licentious masquerade, now that she was old enough to handle it.

"Alright, I'll come with you. But," she said, coming to the last and most quintessentially feminine wrinkle, "what am I going to wear?"

* * *

Next chapter – Masquerade

A/N – Thanks to my reviewers for their feedback and support. I really appreciate it.


	18. Masquerade I

A/N – A quick update! Goodness me, what is the world coming to? Well, I bought Labyrinth on DVD, and watched the ballroom scene about five times. (sighs dreamily)

So, to make up for all the politicking and talking in the last few chapters, I was inspired to throw in a ballroom scene for all those traditionalists out there.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 18 – Masquerade I**

* * *

Versailles, before the fall –

The walls were ivory marble, covered by royal blue draperies with gold accents. There were mirrors everywhere, endlessly reflecting the glittering throng, but this was no stately ball, governed by etiquette and exquisitely haughty manners. This was a masquerade of the Fair Folk, thrown by the most notoriously wanton, extravagant, and depraved of all the ladies of the Courts…

The wine was rich, thick, and almost black, spiced with poppy seeds and ground aphrodisiacs. Human boys and girls clad in filmy, transparent silk served it on bended knee, their eyes clouded and drugged, and their bodies begging. As they took spun-glass goblets from the trays, elaborately masked lords and ladies gave the servers absent-minded caresses, smiling indulgently when they leant into the touch and whimpered for more.

All around, the chandeliers glittered with light, endlessly refracted and reflected by the mirrors and the jewels worn by men and women alike; diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds, scattered over brilliant gowns, white shoulders and breasts with a reckless, gay abandon, and flaunted on white, elegant fingers and in the midst of crisp falls of exquisite lace. The setting was eighteenth century, but the clothing varied as wildly as the guests' appearances – there, a tall, slender figure in a white, foaming shirt unlaced to the breastbone and satin knee breeches and stockings, her mask a twisted, snarling monstrosity. There, a huge, ebony-skinned man in a scarlet, curling wig, his striking eyes lined with gold paint, his magnificent bare chest shimmering barbarically with metallic tattoos.

Tall, slender figures and short, squat ones, white-skinned, black-skinned, green-skinned, grey-skinned, some with scales and some with wings and some with feathers. They wore satins, silks and velvets, glittering cobwebs, shimmering autumn leaves and thick, plush furs. Emperors and fools, heroes and rogues, shepherdesses and queens, virgins and whores, it was an incredible kaleidoscope of brilliant colour and whirling lights, and it was into this shining company that Jareth, King of the Goblins, made his entrance.

Dressed in magnificent ivory silk with black accents, masked as a white owl, his cloak suggesting trailing feathers, he sauntered haughtily down the stairs, his glittering, eerie eyes surveying all before him with amused contempt. Once, he had been one of the leaders of this throng, a jaded, reckless pleasure seeker whiling his life away in debauchery and petty intrigue, gambling, seducing innocents, and playing cruel, elaborate games with mortal victims. He'd given free reign to the cruelty, malice and caprice that was so much a part of his nature –

And then he'd tried his hand at serious intrigue, and soon learned the difference between social influence and cold, hard political power.

Now, centuries later, he returned to see the same faces, the same games, cloaked in different fashions and different affectations. It'd been a long time since he'd played these games, but he found the old instincts returning to him – a suggestive smile here, a lingering caress there, implying all but promising nothing, enrapturing men and women both with his deliberately unleashed sexuality.

It was a tool, nothing more.

But when he felt a touch on his elbow, felt Bran lean over his shoulder and whisper in his ear, the warmth of his breath made him shiver, made him close his eyes in anticipation.

"Why didn't you use this on Sarah ten years ago?" Bran asked dryly. "You're hot enough now to burn the entire building down."

Jareth frowned. He tipped his head back, feeling the brush of his hair against Bran's chest. "I wasn't sure I could control it," he admitted. "It's been centuries since I gave it its full reign…"

"And so you let it out now," Bran said flatly. Discreetly, he moved away, ensuring that no one saw the Goblin King rubbing his head against his commander's tunic like a big, dangerous, twisting cat. "At Lucrezia Nevismouth's masquerade. You'll start a riot."

"No." Jareth turned, reached out, and gripped his tunic, drawing him closer. "Because you will be beside me, keeping me from any foolishness –"

Bran broke Jareth's grip and took a step back. "I am more like to be seen as your lover, scaring away all other contenders to the position."

Jareth followed him. "The result will be no different. You'll stop me from going too far, and together we'll find Vane and see how much he knows…"

"No!" Bran said sharply, pushing Jareth back with a hand on his chest. "No, I will not play this game, Jareth. Remember your position, your responsibilities. Remember the danger. Remember _Sarah_ –"

The playful, malicious cruelty faded from Jareth's expression, to be replaced by a more serious look of determination and true, bone-deep desire. What had passed before had been shallow, superficial interest in something he could never have – this, Bran knew, was the real thing. "Sarah," Jareth repeated slowly. "Sweet Sarah…"

* * *

"_Bran and I will enter first, to draw their attention. You, Caede and Owen will slip in while Aethan and Huw are announced, and whatever you do, don't let them know that you're human. We are open-minded and tolerant now, but there are still places where humans are prey, and this masquerade will be one of them…"_

Peering into the ballroom through filmy, billowing drapes, she could understand why Jareth had issued that particular warning. The half-clad human servants were scattered all over the room, most of them providing other services to their masters and mistresses – Owen, half-human, made a sharp, guttural sound of disgust before Caede gripped his shoulder, silencing him.

Sarah had thought her peach-fantasy ball wild, with its suggestive, leering dancers; this, however, gave new meaning to the word unrestrained. The wine flowed freely, and tasted of something dark, secret, and musty; immediately after drinking it, she felt flushed, warm, and somehow restless. She fanned herself, wafting the air with her fan – a delicate tracery of silk and filigree silver, to go with the discreet, restrained dark grey silk gown. Any protests that grey would make her look like a Victorian schoolmarm were quashed when Aethan had asked whether she truly wanted to draw attention to herself –

Unlike ten years ago, Sarah had no desire to be the belle of this ball.

Behind her mask, a whimsical, delicate mouse, she drew in a deep breath, lifted her chin stubbornly, and listened to the herald announcing Aethan, son of Loth. Clad in brilliant crimson and gold, he made a magnificent entrance, distracting enough eyes that Sarah, under a small, deceptively simple illusion, could sneak in with the two Exiles by her side.

Once inside, she could feel the ball's enchantment slipping over her, deliberately woven to make the food and wine the best the guests had ever tasted, the music and entertainment the most engrossing they had ever experienced, and the company and conversation the most fascinating of their lives. It was a common tactic, and most of the guests were immune to it, or else had ways to overcome the glamour. Caede and Owen, sticking like glue to her side, had been warned to make sure that she did not succumb to it. Too many humans had consumed horse piss and rotting garbage while the gentry looked on and laughed, convinced that they were drinking champagne and eating the golden apples of Avalon –

"_We are a cruel people, Sarah. We live long, long lives, and spend most of them seeking to be entertained. After centuries of empty revels and increasingly jaded amusements, there are few things that can challenge us and engage our interest…"_

Could that possibly explain all the scheming, all the tangled intrigue? Could it be that they were simply bored, seeking a way to amuse themselves – was Toby only a piece in a game that, centuries from now, would prove to be a meaningless diversion?

No. Surely not.

Sarah had to believe that all the plotting and planning to regain Toby was part of a larger scheme, one that would stamp its legacy on the Underground for centuries to come. She had left her familiar, comfortable world to come here, had willingly placed herself in Jareth and Aethan's hands and trusted that they would help her regain her brother. She needed to believe that he was telling her the truth…

A burst of raucous, drunken laughter jerked her out of her reverie.

Caede gripped her arm and drew her aside to avoid colliding with a cavalier, swinging a screaming, laughing milkmaid around in a lively reel. When he lifted the milkmaid high over his head, her ample breasts shook and quivered, straining against the low bodice – Sarah had never felt so glad for her comparatively high neckline in her life.

"There," Owen whispered in her ear, turning her to the left, where, through the whirling revelers, they could see Jareth and his ever-present black shadow lounging against a pillar, talking idly as they surveyed the ballroom. Trying their best to be discreet, they forced their way slowly through the throng, deftly avoiding reaching hands and languid, murmured invitations, until they circled around behind where Jareth and Bran were standing.

Jareth, fanning himself slowly with a fan of sapphire feathers – and who had given _that _to him? – spoke without taking his eyes from the dancers.

"Well, Sarah?" His voice was smoother, richer than normal, his words lacking their customary ironic edge. "What do you think of the beauteous Lucrezia's masquerade? Does it measure up to your dreams?"

She swallowed, unnerved by the strange timbre of his voice. His skin, too, seemed to be more luminous than it had been before… "It's worse than I remember," she answered dryly. "Owen wasn't pleased by the human servants."

Ten years ago, her voice would have betrayed her righteous disgust and indignation. She was proud of her new-learned restraint.

"Yes, Lady Nevismouth always did like to be surrounded by adoring pets."

"And you?" she asked. "I'm sure turning all the children wished away to you into goblins makes your masquerades a pale shadow of this one. Or do you keep a few back, just in case?"

She ignored Bran's irritated hiss and glared at the Goblin King's back until he deigned to turn around and face her. And then she took a step back, in instinctive reaction – his eyes were too bright, too intense…

"My dear Sarah," he said, still in that same electrifying voice, "how remiss of me. I have not yet asked you to dance." Before she could back away, he reached out and took her hand, drawing her into his arms, and pushing them both into the dance.

Once again, Sarah found herself dancing in the Goblin King's arms, looking up into his eyes as they moved. Only this time he was not singing to her, she was infuriated rather than enchanted, and the dance was far wilder than the decorous waltz of before.

"I thought," she managed to hiss, once she'd caught her breath, "that I was not supposed to draw attention to myself! Why are you dancing with me, if you don't want me to be the centre of attention?"

He laughed wickedly, drew her in tighter as he whirled her around in a tight circle. "Either you flatter me, or you give yourself too much credit… Ten years ago, you abandoned me in the middle of the dance floor."

"Yes, and we were the centre of attention then!"

"That was your fantasy, Sarah; I merely gave it to you. Look around," he indicated the other dancers, the revelers, laughing and playing with furious, empty desperation. "They're far too engrossed in their own pleasure, their own concerns – _they do not care about you, Sarah_."

She reared back in shock, but this time he did not let her struggle out of his arms. His grip iron-hard, he held her so tightly it hurt, pulling her flush against him. Still moving to the music, he bent down to whisper in her ear, his breath warm against her flesh, "The only ones who will notice are those already involved in this game."

* * *

Bran, clad in unrelieved black, his mask made of raven's feathers, was half-hidden in the shade of an ivy-wrapped pillar.

"Hiding, are you?" Aethan laughed, mocking him. "Ladies find dark brooding in corners irresistible, you know."

Bran spared him a glance. "I'm waiting for Jareth to return to his senses."

"Why? What is it this time – oh." They both watched, displeased, as Jareth and his mortal companion whirled around the floor, so completely engrossed in each other that they might have been alone in the room, rather than in the midst of an orgy. The sparks between them were palpable –

"Do you see them, Huw?" Aethan asked, bringing up an old, whimsical conversation. "When you look for a woman, make sure you find one who can enthrall you to the point of madness like that."

"Madness?" Huw asked, stopping a cautious distance away from Bran. "Do you think so?"

"Recklessness, certainly." Bran answered. "He should be focusing on Vane."

"Fool. He never truly learned the meaning of restraint." Aethan's voice was almost regretful. "He reaches out to the fire, always – even though he knows it will burn him."

Bran shook his head. "It is his nature. If he wants something, there will be nothing you, or I, or anyone could say that would sway him. You of all people should know that, Grey Lord – he cannot be confined."

"Even if it leads to infatuation? You say she has beaten him at his own game. She would have enthralled him."

The sidhe, with their ancient ennui and their firefly attention spans, sometimes found the swift, vivid energy of mortal lives intoxicating. When it went further than fascination, when they fell into a relationship doomed from the very outset, it invariably led to heartache and grief. They all paused, thinking on the implications of an infatuated Goblin King.

"Ten years he has been obsessed with her," Bran admitted. "No one else has ever beaten him before. I do not think it a passing fancy."

Crisp steps sounded behind them, and Bran barely had time to straighten and turn, ready to face the new threat –

"Well, this is a very merry gathering," Vane said. "Do you fear that to lose your influence over the Goblin King? Or is it, Bran, that you dislike seeing your beloved lord so close to another?"

* * *

A/N – Yes, this is only half of a chapter. However, I thought it would be better to give you half now than make you wait until after Nov 15th for all of it. Real life calls.

But – how did you find the beauteous Lucrezia's ball, my dear readers?

Feedback would be greatly appreciated. Thanks very much.


	19. Masquerade II: Disaster

A/N – The second part of the ball.

Note - I have made some minor modifications to the last section of the previous chapter.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue. I also picked up the idea of a 'Notice-me-not' spell/glamour from somewhere else, but can't remember where. So please make a note that that's not mine either.

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**Chapter 19 – Masquerade pt II: Disaster**

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Jareth kept careful note of the looks cast his way, one part of him automatically categorizing and analyzing the ebb and flow of the body language and intrigue all around, but the greater part of him was reveling in the hot, vivid emotion in Sarah's eyes. She felt everything so deeply: her anger was scorching hot, her fear was a chill down his spine, and her love for the boy was deep, endless, and all-encompassing.

He wanted to wallow in that emotion, to feel as she did –

Once, he had been capable of emotion like that, when he had been much, much younger and far less cynical. Once, he had followed a will-o-the-wisp dream across the face of the Underground, through fire and blood and mountains of poisonous iron, all to found his own kingdom, where he would never have to bow his head to anyone ever again.

But that had been nearly a thousand years ago, and the centuries had taken their toll. It had been such a very long, long time since anything had truly sparked his interest – until Sarah had come, with her earnest eyes and her iron determination to save a brother she thought she had despised.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she hissed under her breath, holding herself stiff in his arms.

With any other woman, he would have spoken sweet, ultimately meaningless platitudes.

"I'm concentrating on maintaining the notice-me-not glamour," he answered, more honestly than he had done for a while. "Because you're moving, it's harder to anchor."

"A glamour?" she sputtered. "You put a _spell _on me?"

He sighed. This was what came of telling the truth. "Sarah, would you rather be the centre of attention? Yes, the revelers have other concerns, but it's always easier to make sure."

"You used magic on me against my will?"

"You swore an oath of allegiance to me, Sarah – surely you realized it would give me certain rights."

"You have no power over me!" she glared at him, her anger almost tangible. He couldn't help it – he tightened his arms even further around her and drew in her pumping, frenetic mortality.

_She has only eighty years, at the most – _

"Sarah…" So terribly, terribly out of her depth.

She started to struggle in earnest, and he sighed, and took them in a number of swirling, wild turns so they could slip discreetly out through the doors leading onto the garden terrace. He could hear squeals of high-pitched, excited feminine giggles, and a deeper, guttural male voice, confident of success – with an irritated, imperious wave of his hand, he silenced them. They would most likely wake in the morning, confused and disorientated, but he had little patience to spare for tempering his magic.

Sarah wrenched herself out of his arms, retreating a few steps away, glaring furiously at him. "Don't touch me!" she hissed, her hands clenched into fists.

He stopped where he was, his eyes narrowed. This was more than pique, more than a coy pretense of indignation. He had pushed her too far.

"I'm sick of your games, Jareth! You, Bran, Aethan – even Caede! – you all look down your perfect sidhe noses and dismiss me because I'm human. You dress me up in this…this bloody stupid dress and take me to an orgy, flaunting me under their noses – flaunting your ability to deceive them! You play your political games, always talking, talking, talking –"

"Sarah, that's enough."

"No, it's not enough!" Her voice was growing thicker, and her eyes were suspiciously bright. "I saw them watching, Jareth – Aethan, Huw, and Bran, looking as if they'd just bitten into a lemon – and you say we won't draw attention? All anyone has to do is watch them – there's no need for spells! Who was the wolf?" she demanded. "The black and silver wolf, talking to Bran? He looked right at me, and he _smiled_."

Jareth took a step closer, noting her automatic retreat. "That was Vane," he said, considering her. How much did she know? How much did she truly understand of the situation?

"The king of Winter's right hand," she said flatly, gathering her skirts and sitting down on one of the sculpted stone benches.

"Yes." He deliberately deepened his voice, feeling a chill run over his skin as he circled behind her. On silent, predator's feet, he came so close to her that the stiff, embroidered fabric of his coat was almost brushing her dress, so close that he could feel her heat. He reached out, his hand hovering over the exposed nape of her neck. "And the man who took Toby; or, rather, the man with whom Toby consented to go. We cannot take humans against their will. Not even I can take children unless another grants me the permission."

"Then Toby was tricked into calling him." She shifted on the seat, her shoulders hunching. Very, very lightly, he touched one gloved finger to the soft, silken skin.

She shied, shivered away –

"Undoubtedly. It is an entirely legitimate ruse – is it not, Lord Vane?"

Sarah jumped up, her face white and pinched with fury. Jareth lifted his hand negligently, a crystal ball forming, a bright, steady glow emanating from its depths and illuminating the darkened terrace.

A black and silver wolf stepped out of the shadows, the light falling on his pale, icily handsome face.

"One that you have used time and again to excellent affect, Goblin King. Mortals are so naïve."

Jareth's eyes flickered over his shoulder, to see Bran leaning against the terrace doors. "He saw," his second-in-command said. "He followed you. I thought it best not to kill him, not when it would have caused a diplomatic incident."

Vane did not turn around, but smiled pleasantly, his teeth white and sharp. "That has never stopped you before, Crow; I'm sure you could have thought of something. But there's another reason for your reticence, isn't there?"

Jareth raised a brow. But before he could reply, Sarah, overlooked and ignored, stepped out into the light – Jareth's crystal had deliberately cast her into shadow, but she refused to do the sensible thing and fade away in a discreet exit.

"You," she hissed, turning furiously on Jareth. "You set this up! You knew this would happen – was this all part of the plan? Was I ever anything more than bait? And you –" she snarled, turning to face Vane, "you're just as bad as he is. _All_ of you, dancing around each other, playing these stupid…_games!_" She stormed right up to Vane, her rage and contempt vibrating around her. "_Where is my brother?"_

Vane paused, and then reached out his hand to touch Sarah's hair. Jareth couldn't help himself – he took a step forward, his eyes blazing possessively. Vane looked up from Sarah, over the top of her head, and into Jareth's eyes, and he smiled.

"Jareth's obsession," he said, amusement running rich and strong through his voice. "You must be Sarah. The girl who solved the Labyrinth.

And with that, Jareth saw all his carefully laid plans crashing down about his head.

* * *

A/N – Don't kill me! Chapter 20 is up already.


	20. Catalytic Reaction

A/N – The aftermath of the disastrous ending to the ball.

Disclaimer – I don't own. Don't sue me. "All things must be as they are" is a quote from Jacqueline Carey's two-book series 'Banewreaker' and 'Godslayer'.

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**CHAPTER 20 – Catalytic Reaction**

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Jareth smashed his fist into the stone wall, his teeth gritted and his face taut, drawn and white with fury. His eyes were feral, wild, like the Owl his avian counterpart –

_Fool! Blind, impatient, stupidly impulsive bitch! What were you thinking?_

Sarah's unthinking, disastrous words echoed through his mind, and he could see her standing there in the garden, straight and tall and proud, her anger driving her in a direction he had not foreseen. Surely, he had thought, she had common sense enough to know when to hold her tongue – but evidently, his manipulations were more effective than he had thought. He had quite deliberately sought to keep her off-balance and uninformed, so that she would be forced to rely on him for protection and guidance in this strange new world.

She had escaped his control. And he knew where it had gone wrong – the night of the ball, and his sensual attentions, trying to knock her even further off-balance, an impulsive decision fueled by his intoxication with her dark, vibrant eyes. Once she recognized his manipulations, she rebelled against his hold –

_Fool. Intoxicated, infatuated fool. _

– and rushed in blindly, and ripped the fragile fabric of the Underground to tatters. Once again, with a few choice words, a pithy turn of phrase, she had brought his world down around his ears.

She cared for nothing but her brother. It was all she had ever asked of him –

Once more, the feral, blind rage rising, he took his anger out on the castle he had built with his own blood, sweat and magic, carved out of the fabric of his dreams – the castle that she had destroyed, in the blink of an eye. He smashed his fist into the wall again, relishing the bright, vivid pain, the _feeling, _the sense of solid reality.

His blood was thick, and crimson, and tasted of copper.

He wondered if she would be surprised.

* * *

The goblins had deserted the throne room, alerted to the King's fury by the shivering reaction of the Labyrinth and the rapid, unnatural darkening of the sky. The Goblin Kingdom was, at its fundamental base, a physical geographical area, but it was also, on another layer, a creation of Jareth's will and magic funneled through the Labyrinth he had created to stamp his mark on the physical land.

When the King was angry, the whole Kingdom shook and cowered in fear. Even the Exiles, those hardened, cynical rebels who had chosen exile rather than submission to lawful authority, felt the power of his will. Every single independent one of them had sworn an oath of allegiance and owned him their lord and master – very, very rarely did he ever exercise that power over them, but when he did, it lashed like a whip.

Aethan stood at the window of his guest chamber, looking out at the unnatural sky and the empty streets.

"What is this?" Huw breathed, half-awed, half-appalled.

"This is the rage of a King." Aethan, who did not believe in divine rights and mystical covenants, was seeing the proof of his son's true power now. It was not comforting.

"She was not thinking clearly. You could see it – she was bubbling over, ready for any sort of trouble. She reached the end of her tether, and then simply lashed out…" Huw's voice trailed off. It was incredibly difficult to justify Sarah's appalling outburst in the light of the consequences that had flowed from it.

Everything that they had tried so hard to conceal had been laid bare for Vane. He knew Sarah's identity, he knew how much she valued Toby, and he knew how much Jareth valued Sarah, and to what lengths he was willing to go to get Toby back. The news of Jareth's and Aethan's alliance, and the true reason behind it, had come to Cormack Ruagh's ears – ably aided by informants in Vane's pay – and Aethan had lost all credibility with him.

Aethan, staring blankly out the window, thought back to the last terrible audience with the Summer King in all his glory, his bearded face set in stern, majestic lines, his eyes dark with fury.

"_You lied to us, Aethan. You have been lying to us for a very, very long time – you knew there was a child Twice-returned, and yet you did not try to kill him, or to take him for us; instead, you joined with your turncoat son and his mortal whore and sought to take him for yourself. What do you have to say for yourself?"_

_Aethan had merely stared at his sovereign, and then slowly dropped his eyes, as he had not lowered his eyes to Cormack Ruagh since he had first taken his place by his side. _

"_Yes, lower your eyes, you traitorous dog," the king thundered, his rage hot and terrible. "You have given Winter the perfect leverage to destroy everything that we have built for thousands of years. You have plunged the Underground into war again! Go! Get out of our sight! We banish you – go and join your son, then; sup with the scum and riffraff of the Underground…"_

And, worst of all, the news of a child Twice-returned had run the length and breadth of the Underground, and the carefully tended détente that had held the fragile peace together was cracking like thin, melting ice. Black Donn had held the child out as an inducement first to the High King, and then to any others who thought they were strong enough to take the High King's seat –

The rumbling preparations for war could be heard even here, far, far to the West. Soon, there would be another all-encompassing war, as kings and war-leaders great and small vied for the child of prophecy.

"We should have stopped her," Huw said, recrimination in his voice.

But Aethan only shook his head. "How? Not even Jareth could control her."

A long-despised maxim drifted through his memory, a fatalistic excuse that he had rejected long, long ago:

_All things must be as they are._

He did not believe in Fate. He believed in diplomacy, in order, and in his own strength of will and cunning. And yet here they were, once more on the brink of war…

* * *

The boy was shivering, Vane saw. Stretched up on the tips of his toes, the boy could barely see out the narrow slit of a window, but he was looking westwards, towards the Goblin Kingdom. Vane wondered what was going through his mind. He could not read the child's eyes – that, more than anything, spooked him – but clearly, young Toby knew that there was something very wrong in the air.

Vane reveled in the coming violence. Finally, he would smash the balance that had held Winter back for so long – this time, there would be no compromises, no half-measures; the war would only end when he saw his great cousin on the throne of the High King. There would be no more détente, and no more artificial balance.

This time, Winter would make its own peace.

* * *

Sarah shivered as a blast of cold air skittered through the park, scattering dead, brittle leaves in its wake. Unlike the last time she returned Aboveground from a trip to the Labyrinth, this time she could sense the eyes on her back, see the whispering, chattering smallfolk in the small, hidden places of the world. They watched her with alien, unnerving eyes, somehow accusing her, as if they knew what she had done –

What was so wrong about demanding her brother's return? She didn't care about the Underground, didn't care if Jareth or Aethan were plunged into an honest-to-God fight instead of all the endless plotting and intriguing. She had only ever wanted Toby back…

"…_I just want my brother back. That's all I want. I never asked to be caught up in this; I just want to go home…"_

"_Only children seek to turn back the clock. We can none of us go home, Sarah Williams."_

Except that Jareth had sent her back, his eyes furious, immediately after the night of the ball.

"_Do you know what you've done, you little fool?" he'd snarled, almost shaking her. "You've ruined everything –"_

"_You can't send me back!" she'd gasped. "I have to find Toby!" _

_He'd laughed at that, laughed and laughed and laughed. Then he'd sent her spinning and whirling through space, until she'd stumbled out, onto the grass of the park where, long ago, she had imagined herself a defiant, heroic princess. _

_She did not appreciate the reminder._

"Get up, Sarah Williams."

She turned around, startled, to see Bran standing by the fence, watching her with his cool, hooded eyes. He was wearing his usual dull black robes, and there were small beads and glossy feathers braided into his long, black hair. He looked extraordinarily out of place, here in the normal world. She gaped at him, getting slowly to her feet.

"What are you doing here?"

He stalked closer, his robes swirling about him. "I am watching over you, of course."

"But – but what about Jareth? Aren't you supposed to be his chief bodyguard? Commander of the Exiles?" She took an involuntary step back; she did not like the look in his eyes.

"There are three hundred other blades at Jareth's disposal. And _he _has always been our true Commander, even from the very beginning. He sent me to you, to make sure that no one else tries to harm you, or bring you through."

"Oh." She hadn't thought of that. She stared at him in silence for a while, absorbing the reality of his presence. "But you don't even _like _me," she said finally. "Surely you can change his mind? I'm sure, from watching you guys interact, that you have a pretty good working relationship…"

His smile was painfully ironic. "It would be more than even my life is worth, to cross him now. He made his wishes quite clear; I am to ride out this war keeping to your side, instead of at his."

She couldn't think of anything else to say. She didn't think he would appreciate an apology –

And so, for once in her life, she kept silent.

* * *

A/N – A shameless bit of self-promotion. I have another Labyrinth fic, a prequel to this story called 'First Impressions'. It focuses on Jareth's past, his first meeting with Bran, and his founding of the Goblin Kingdom. There is no Sarah, and not nearly as much politics.


	21. Sarah, Aboveground

A/N – Why does writer's block only strike one story?

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth. I'm just playing with it.

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**Chapter 21 **

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Left with no real choice, Sarah took Bran home with her.

She felt ridiculously self-conscious, walking beside him. The streets of New York were loud, bustling and energetic, and even among the varied, often exotic populace, Bran stood out – it wasn't just his long robes, or his long, braided black hair, or the raven markings tattooed around his eyes and temples; he was_ alien. Other_.

"So," she said, slanting him a sidelong look, "is this your first visit Aboveground?"

He paced beside her, hands in his pockets. She noticed that his eyes were always moving, his awareness spread over the whole, shifting street scene. "No. In my youth, I spent some time in Eire. However," he added with some irony, "that was a long time ago."

"Has…Jareth ever spent time Above?"

"Yes, in _his _wild youth –" he stopped. Across the street, she could see a woman, half-glimpsed, strangely obscured. With a start, she remembered all the times she'd seen strange, feral eyes in the rushing crowd, alien features quickly hidden when she looked again.

The woman was staring, frozen, at Bran, her eyes wide and fixed. A pale, slender man hurried up to the woman, his body language screaming out his protectiveness. He glared defiantly at Bran, but Sarah could see the fear behind the bravado.

"Why are they afraid of you?" she asked, puzzled.

"They are political refugees," he said. "They fear being dragged back into the mire. My presence here…" he shrugged. "They fear the Goblin King's influence."

Jareth's influence, and by extension his own.

"Don't you get tired of all those people looking at you with fear in their eyes?"

"No," he answered frankly. "I am Jareth's right hand, his enforcer – he gives an order, and I ensure that it is carried out. Sometimes it is necessary to inspire fear."

Sarah looked over at the defiant couple again. "I thought Winter was the enemy."

* * *

"_I thought Winter was the enemy."_

Bran stared at the woman who had once been the First Councillor of Ymesse. She had tried to assert Ymesse's traditional neutrality, hoping to avoid annexation by the two major power blocs, but had not been willing to fall in with the Non-Aligned.

Jareth had broken her, and rendered Ymesse's fertile fields and rich pasturelands utterly useless to _any_ would-be conquerors.

* * *

Much, much later Bran stood over a half-filled soup bowl in Sarah's small kitchen, staring hazily down at the clear water. At present, it reflected only the metal walls surrounding it – waving his hand over it, he concentrated briefly, and the water shimmered and began to darken, the clear reflection hazing, dissolving and reforming into something quite different.

_Stone walls formed, coalescing into the throne room of the Castle Beyond the Goblin City, sunlight flooding through the great arched windows. A vague impression of movement, of furious energy, and as he focused, he saw the Goblin King sprawled on his throne, tapping his riding crop against his thigh – _

Past, present, or future? Scrying was never the most reliable method of divination, revealing as it did only glimpses of a much larger pattern. And Bran had never had much time for magic, making his living as he did with his sword.

"What's that?" Sarah asked sleepily, wandering out of her room in her scandalous nightclothes. Looking at her now, soft and vulnerable, he could see her beauty.

"A mirror," he answered, turning his attention back to the vision. But the castle walls had vanished, and all that remained were vague, indistinct shadows. "Normally it is done with a silver bowl, but –" he shook his head, "you have none."

"You're scrying?" She walked up beside him and peered down into the clear, empty water. "How? What do you see?"

"Nothing. Shadows, and mist – come." He moved over, allowed her to stand over the bowl and peer into the water. "Look. Let your eyes unfocus, and empty your mind of preconceptions; see."

She bent over the bowl, her eyes unfocusing, and he could feel the power gathering around her. Really, he should not be surprised at anything she could do anymore – she had found her way through the Labyrinth, she had gained the attention of Jareth, of Aethan, of Vane, of the rulers and policy makers of the Underground, and she had ripped apart the fabric of a thousand year truce. He would not put anything past her.

Even he could scry.

"What do you see?" he asked softly, not wishing to jolt her out of her trance.

_

* * *

_

_Dante Andenais, the High King whom she had seen, briefly, at the Council of Lords, paced restlessly about a tent, while the black and silver wolf – Vane – watched in secret amusement. The High King was dressed for war, in bright, glittering chain mail, two ornate, filigreed brooches clasping his thick, scarlet cloak._

_Crouched by Vane's side, dressed in miniature black and silver, was – _

"Toby!" she shouted, jerking upright, ruining the reflection and thus inadvertently banishing the vision. "I saw Toby, Bran. He's with Vane, and with the High King."

"Yes," he admitted ruefully, "I rather thought that would happen. Vane has sold him to the highest bidder."

"You _thought _this would happen," she repeated fiercely. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He eyed her with acute dislike. "We did. Many times. You would not listen."

"Oh, don't start –" she began, her voice rising in frustration.

He cut her off. "How the hell did you ever get through the Labyrinth, Sarah Williams? You're rash, headstrong, convinced of your own –"

"I was upset and off-balance!" she shouted. "And you and Jareth made damned sure I stayed that way, didn't you?" Her eyes snapped with rage, and a miniature wind rose around her. "You deliberately kept me in the dark, fed me little tidbits when it suited you – and now you wonder why I didn't cooperate!"

His eyes, normally dark pewter, were now bright, almost glowing silver; his face was white and taut and his gloved hands clenched into tight, trembling fists.

"Oh, don't loom over me," she snapped. "I'm not afraid of you."

She waited for the obvious rejoinder, especially in light of the conversation they'd had earlier in the day. But he only breathed in deeply, a clear attempt to compose himself, and said, "Recriminations are useless, at this stage."

Apparently, it was the only apology she was going to receive.

"Look into the mirror again. What else do you see?"

Giving him a long, fulminating Look, she bent down to the bowl once again.

_

* * *

_

_A huge, perfectly flat lake reflected the blue sky and the distant mountains like a great sheet of glass. Slowly, tremours began, ripples, destroying the perfection of the image –on the horizon, a vague, indistinct shadow grew closer and closer…_

_The scene shifted, and the huge, red-bearded King of Summer stood before a great white throne, a man she recognized as a much, much younger Dante almost at bay before him. By Cormack's side, as always, was Aethan, and across from him were Black Donn, the Winter King, and Vane, the four of them united in one purpose…_

_The scene shifted once again, and Aethan – as he had been, the last time she saw him - paced, frowning, stopping every so often to stare out the window into the distance. Behind him, Huw watched, his eyes narrowed, one hand playing with the jeweled dagger at his belt… _

* * *

"Look again," Bran ordered her curtly. "It doesn't take much to see thatone as a traitor."

"But…"

"He was so nice?" Bran snorted. "So gratefully loyal? Perhaps he might have been, once. But he has his own vision of what should be – and you can be sure it doesn't match with Aethan's."

Sarah frowned, but looked into the water again.

And saw straight into the past.

* * *

"_Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered…"_

_She saw a long, straggling, line of horsemen, many of them slumped and drooping in their saddles, their faces white and sweat-slick, blood trickling from their noses and sometimes their eyes. At their head was a much younger Jareth, minus his eye-markings, swaying in the saddle, but his face set and determined. _

"_I have fought my way through to the Castle…"_

_The horsemen, swords out and swinging, were fighting desperately against…goblins, they were, but much larger and much fiercer, their faces twisted with rage and hatred as they hacked and cut and twisted. In the distance was a high hill, adorned with the half-finished foundation of what would once be the Castle Beyond the Goblin City._

"_For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great…"_

_Jareth knelt on the ground, doubled over in agony, his face twisted as the earth writhed and heaved all around him. She could feel the raw power in the air, taste the fundamental changes that were in progress as sudden colour broke out and flowed across Jareth's face, marking him, branding him forever. _

_And then – _

_A young girl stood before a fairy-tale king in the final confrontation, the great climax of her adventure. _

"_Only fear me, love me, let me rule you and I will be your slave," the King offered, everything a romantic heroine could want contained in a crystal lying on his outstretched hand. All she had to do was reach out, take it, and the fantasy could be hers._

_But the young girl was brave, and strong, and she finally knew what was real, finally understood that nothing but her brother mattered. She gathered up her courage and recited the magic words she'd learned with such difficulty, knowing in her heart that such a chance would never come again – _

"_You have no power over me!"_

_No power over me…_

_No power over me…_

_The words echoed, mixing with the sonorous sounding of thirteen o'clock and the soundless, but powerful pressure of the King's last scream as he vanished into nothingness. _

_But this time, the vision continued, and she saw what happened to the King afterwards, as he knelt, shattered, amongst the ruins of his castle. She saw his chief adviser, his right hand, come to help him up, saw long, painful struggle to rebuild the castle, to restore the confidence of his people and shore up the damage to his reputation. _

_She saw the consequences of the young girl's determination and the solemnly recited words. _

* * *

She broke out of the vision, gasping, her suddenly useless hands barely strong enough to support her weight on the bench top.

"You knew," she ground out, not turning to look at Bran. "You knew!"

"That Toby was not the only Catalyst? Yes. The peculiar nature of Jareth's arrangement with the Labyrinth was founded on sacrifice, strength of will, and a harsh, determined struggle – unfortunately, it seems you equalled Jareth's experience, in the magic's eyes."

"And you said _nothing_?"

Bran only sighed. He did not bother to refute the accusation.

Whirling, she ran blindly out of the kitchen, needing only to get out, get away – she fumbled wildly at her front door, her hands shaking, and when it finally opened she forged outside, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

"Excuse me," a soft, sweet voice said, interrupting her bitter self-reproach. "Didn't I see you earlier today?"

Sarah looked up from the park bench. It was the woman who had stared so fearfully at Bran in the street.

"Yes," she answered warily. "Yes, but I'm surprised you noticed me – you were too busy staring at B–"

"Don't say it," the woman said quickly, one hand flying up to cover Sarah's mouth. "You must know that it will draw his attention…"

Sarah frowned. Surely that only worked with true names, and she was damned sure that _Bran_ was not his. Nevertheless, it seemed as though the woman had something she wanted to say, so Sarah nodded reassuringly. The woman breathed a sigh of relief and withdrew her hand.

She sat down, and leaned close in as if she had some great secret to confide. "You were with…_him. _I must tell you, dear, that he is an agent of the Goblin King." Her voice hushed when she spoke the words _Goblin King. _

"Yes," Sarah said dryly, "I'm well aware of that."

"Are you not afraid? Don't you know what he is, what he's done? He is a butcher, a merciless killer, and his master a heartless intriguer. The Master of the Labyrinth will stop at nothing to achieve his desires…"

Sarah was well aware of that, she didn't need this woman to tell her so. Instead, for some strange reason, she resented this woman's interference into her affairs…

"He gathered all the murderers, thieves and traitors of the Underground, and forged them into a terrifying army, fiendishly loyal, which he used to seize his kingdom by force from the original inhabitants." The woman's voice dropped even further, and she shifted so close that Sarah sidled reflexively away.

"He is _terrible,_" she hissed, her eyes fixed and uncomfortably intent. Unsettled, Sarah moved further away, but the woman's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. "Do not become involved with him, my dear. He will use you and discard you when he is done, and if you will not be used, then he will _destroy _you. Do you hear me, girl? He is the Lord of Lies, the Prince of Deception –"

"Yes, yes, thank you for the advice," Sarah said quickly, trying to free her wrist. "I'll be very careful, I assure you…"

"No!" the woman shrieked. "No! He has deceived you! He has tainted you –"

Sarah tried to pry the steel fingers away, without much success. The woman was as strong as an ox. She was indignant now – this crazy woman with her pack of half-truths, misinterpretations and insinuations had seriously pissed her off. It was one thing for her to abuse Jareth, but quite another thing for a virtual stranger to do so. She knew nothing of Sarah's strange relationship with Jareth, or of the complex truth of Jareth's character…

"Listen, you crazy bitch," she snarled, balling up her fist, "let _go_ of me! I didn't ask you to interfere in my business –"

But the woman reached into her dress and withdrew a silver knife. Shocked, Sarah stood up, lashing out suddenly, trying to throw her off balance, but the woman dodged, and pulled her back with all the strength of the deranged. She screamed and threw herself at Sarah, the wicked blade raised to stab her –

"Help!" Sarah shouted, scrambling away, backpedalling. "Somebody – she's trying to _kill_ me! Jareth!" she shrieked, barely dodging a wild stroke, "Jareth! _Bran!"_

She tripped on an exposed root and felt herself going down, the woman cackling and following her down, the blade coming down inexorably, and she knew that this was it. This time, she was dead.

One strong, capable hand wrapped itself about the madwoman's wrist, easily stopping the blade's descent, and then _twisting – _the woman's hand flew open, and the knife fell limply to the ground. Another hand tangled in the woman's hair, jerking her head up, and the first gripped her chin, and there was a sickening _crack –_

Sarah gasped, and then scrambled quickly out of the way, drawing her legs up as the madwoman slumped to the ground, her head twisted round at a very awkward angle. She stared at her, shocked, and then raised her eyes to see Bran watching her, his eyes perfectly flat.

"Did…" she swallowed, trying to breathe slowly to calm her heart rate down, "did you hear your name on the wind?"

"No," he said dryly, "I followed you."

* * *

A/N – You know, this would have been the perfect place to give my wildcard Winged Lady a proper send-off. Sarah and Bran see her on the street, she goes up to them and demands Sarah fulfill her debt, Bran refuses, and later on, in a crazed rage, she attacks Sarah and Bran kills her. Oh well. I rather liked her death in ch 14 so I can't complain. The unfortunate First Councillor of Ymesse will serve well enough to teach Sarah a lesson.

Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated. Don't feel shy, lurkers.


	22. Treachery

A/N – Continuing straight on from the end of the last chapter. Apologies about the delay; to make up for it, I have made this chapter extra long and action packed.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Any original characters are mine. I am making no profit from this, other than a glow of personal satisfaction.

* * *

**Chapter 22**

* * *

However, it seemed that someone else _had_ been listening.

The Goblin King was waiting for them when they returned to Sarah's apartment, all restless energy and scowling impatience. He looked up sharply when they came in the door, his attention focused on the girl's white, shocked face and her trembling hands.

Bran sighed.

"I thought you capable of protecting one small, human woman, Bran," Jareth began silkily, taking his frustration and fear out on a safe target, as always. "It has not even been a day, and she almost dies in your care."

Sarah tried to intervene. "Hang on, Jareth; you can't hold him responsible–"

"I can and I do." He sent Bran a dark look. "He knows how important you are to…" he hesitated, shook his head. "He should not have let you out of his sight."

Bran weathered the rebuke calmly, knowing full well his sovereign's temper. "It was the old woman of Ymesse. Someone twisted her, aimed her – she would not have dared, otherwise."

The graven, cynical lines on Jareth's face deepened. It was always a sign of bitter, sardonic irony. "I did not think Ceinwyn would dare, either. Or did someone prime her, too? Retrospectives are useless, Bran, once the deed is done."

"I saw her youngest son with her, earlier," Bran said, rather dryly. "Shall I make him talk?"

"And antagonize them further?" Sarah cut in sharply. "I'd have thought you'd done enough to the poor woman and her family."

Jareth's eyes narrowed. "She tried to kill you."

"But Bran killed her instead. As you said – the deed is done; there's no need to take it any further."

Privately, Bran disagreed. He would rather search out and destroy the force behind the attack – but, as always, faced with Jareth's non-answer he held his peace. He would not cross Jareth in front of Sarah; it may be that he would get his authorization later, without Sarah's knowledge.

As it turned out, he did not need to seek out the late Councillor's last surviving son; the boy came to them, instead.

* * *

Goblins.

Aethan surveyed the throne room of his son's castle through narrowed, less than impressed eyes. There were goblins and chickens everywhere, gibbering, cackling, capering; indulging, with furious, primitive gusto, in the worst kind of chaotic mayhem he'd ever had the ill luck to oversee. Was this how it was every day, here, in what should be the seat of Jareth's power?

To his left, Owen, the half-breed Exile, coughed apologetically. "It's the first of his Majesty's quarterly Audience days," he offered, raising his voice so it could be heard over the screaming din. "The goblins have come from miles around to petition him."

And Jareth had suddenly stormed off, his face white and furious, leaving Aethan to take his place without one word of explanation or advice. Aethan had often taken over Cormack's duty in the Summerlands, had acted as magistrate in his absence, but _this_ – this was something entirely different.

"They're restive," Owen continued, as behind him, six goblins stood on each other's shoulders and tried to reach the chandelier. "He's really the only one who can control them, or appease them if they suddenly go mad."

Horrified, fascinated, Aethan watched the impromptu acrobats tumble to the ground, squashing three others not quick enough to get out of the way. He turned to Owen. "Do they often go mad?" he asked, voice only slightly unsteady. "I wouldn't have thought…"

"Oh, not often. Only every now and then. Usually when they feel they've been thwarted, or one of the hardliners draws enough followers to constitute a mini-rebellion." There was a roar of cackling laughter as an agile, athletic chicken made a break for the great bronze-sheathed doors, trailed by four young goblin babes scrambling in hot pursuit.

On his other side, Huw coughed suddenly, turning away to cover his mouth. He was wearing kid leather gloves, to protect, as he said, his hands from the extra chill this far to the west.

"They have hardliners, then," Aethan managed to say. "Traditionalists, are they? Conservatives, who want to go back to nature –"

Owen met his eyes squarely, those plain, human brown eyes perfectly straight, perhaps even a little accusing. "They're not primitives, Lord Aethan. They have quite a sophisticated culture."

As he spoke, he stepped aside to allow the chicken to pass, before shifting to block the pursuing goblin babes, who howled in protest.

* * *

He was no longer young, by the standards of the Fae. He had seen perhaps six, seven centuries: all of them, however, in exile Above. His mother had deliberately kept him from the Underground, from men like the Goblin King, and his father, and all the other puppet masters with their power games and intrigues. But his mother was dead, now, callously used and discarded –

His blood running hot with anger and outrage, he stood in the poorly lit corridor outside Sarah Williams' apartment, trying to gather up the courage to knock. It was midnight. Surely she would be asleep, and perhaps Bran with her…

"Well, boy?" a soft voice murmured in his ear, a sense of dangerous menace at his back. "Are you going to wait all night?"

He swallowed, resisted the urge to turn around. He knew that presence, knew the Goblin King's dark, sardonic bodyguard – the man who had murdered his mother.

"I was…" he swallowed, tried again, "I was coming to see you. To explain."

"Were you?" Bran whispered, allowing him to feel the icy prick of a knife against his back. "You're lucky, boy – because I was just coming to see _you. _And you would have liked that far less…"

"Enough games, Bran," an entirely different voice drawled. This one was lighter, full of amused irony – this time he did turn around, and came face to face with the Goblin King. Extravagant, flamboyant, somehow extraordinarily vivid in this grey hallway, the Goblin King leaned against the wall in all his otherworldly glory.

A true Sidhe Lord, one of the great legends of the Underground.

He stared in undisguised fascination, but came back to himself quickly when Bran cleared his throat.

"Lord Jareth," he said, bowing awkwardly, suppressing a sudden wave of wretched inadequacy. "My name is Jean."

"Jean," Bran repeated, putting his knife away and standing between Guy and the Goblin King. "A human name. And a Christian one."

"Yes." He lifted his chin defiantly. He did not need to justify himself. "My mother wished to forget the past, start a new life Above."

The Goblin King's brows rose. "Indeed? Given her recent conduct –"

"She was forced," Jean hissed angrily, his hands clenching.

Bran stepped towards him, but checked at the King's soft, murmured command.

"Forced? By whom?"

"I don't know!" he snarled, all his futile anger and frustration rising to the boil. "You, or Vane, or any of th- the murderingpuppet masters of the Underground –" He gasped, heaving for breath, his nails digging into his palms. "Why did you have to drag her back into your cursed war? It had nothing to do with us! We have nothing to do with the Underground!"

"_Our _war?" Bran said, very softly.

"I was born in Rouen. I have spent my whole life among humans. Why should I care if people are dying in…" he groped wildly through his memory for some shred of history, "Allesiona and Selevonne?"

"Evidently not," the King murmured. "Selevonne sank beneath the sea, three thousand years ago. Are you telling me, that because your mother was driven into exile, because you have never once set foot Underground, this war does not concern you?"

"The Underground means nothing to me. Why should I fight and die to defend it? You were born in the Summer Country, you grew up by the Lake of Glass – _you _die to preserve it, then. Not me." He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly.

Defensively.

The Goblin King straightened, his face tightening, and Jean remembered, for a moment, that he had not always been a subtle intriguer. Once he, too, had been a warrior. However, the flash of rage faded quickly, and almost immediately, the habitual silent amusement returned.

"Unfortunately, _Jean, _you forfeited any chance of neutrality or non-involvement when your mother tried to kill a woman under my protection. And you know that, or else you would not have come, begging my forgiveness –"

"Begging!"

"Yes. Begging, I say, because despite any human notions of equality you may have absorbed, you are still fae enough to know and recognize my authority and my claim."

"She was forced!" He repeated wildly, genuinely distressed.

"Was she?" The Goblin King, once more leaning with casual menace against the wall, fixed him with bright, feral eyes while Bran prowled and circled in threatening contrast. "Give me some proof, then. Tell me how she was forced, and by whom. And then, my dear, we shall see."

He stepped back, suddenly, trying to avoid Bran's dark, swirling cloak, and found himself hard up against the wall. He swallowed. "It was…it was… he was cloaked, disguised." When the King's brow rose skeptically, he stammered out, "b-but I managed to catch a look…!"

"Well then," the King said mildly, "show us."

"_Show _you?" he echoed dumbly. "But…"

Bran made a curt noise of disgust and disbelief.

"I'm sorry!" Jean burst out, stammering, "I don't… I don't –"

"Are you not fae?" Bran snarled. "Have you no glamour, no illusion? Are you completely useless, after all?"

"Bran…" the Goblin King murmured.

"No, Jareth. The old bitch crippled him with her fear, and if he can't even work the smallest magics, then she cripples us, too. You may have to rip it out of him."

"No!" Jean shouted, his breath heaving at the thought of such a shocking intrusion. "No, I can work small illusions. You don't – you don't have to…do _that, _I'll show you! I'll show you…"

Slowly, concentrating fiercely, he held his hands close together and built up a small, wavering image of the man he had half-seen, looming threateningly over his mother. It took a great deal of effort, and he was breathing harshly and sweating as he held up the image for them to see.

Bran drew in a breath. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I know him. One of Vane's men –" But he was frowning slightly as he spoke. "I thought…"

* * *

Hours had passed, since Aethan had finally managed to restore order to the throne room and quiet the rioting goblins by at least trying to conduct judicial hearings. Most often, he had needed to consult Owen and Caede, but some issues that were the same the world over, whether dealing with goblins in the west, aquatic fisher folk far to the south, or nomads on the frozen grasslands.

Unpaid debts. Drunken idiocy. And always, always, disputes between neighbours…

Now, in the early hours of the morning, he relaxed in his chamber, warming himself at the fire and sipping a glass of rich, spiced wine. His head was no longer throbbing, and he could almost bring himself to look upon the day as an amusing interlude.

He was relaxed, and content.

"Caede tells me that when the Exiles first arrived, the goblins were fierce and warlike," Huw murmured absently. "Much larger, too."

"Oh?" Having little interest in goblins, Aethan stirred the logs in the fire. "They are a short-lived race. Much can change in a thousand years."

"He also said that they have a partial immunity to iron."

Aethan looked up. "Now that _is _interesting." He smiled crookedly. "I would have given a lot to know that, once. I wonder if I could have stirred them into revolt…"

"No, they seem wholly uninterested in politics." Huw sat down and took a glass of wine for himself, fumbling a little with his gloved hands. "A pity. The King would also have paid richly for that little secret."

Something, some change of voice or intonation caused Aethan to look up, puzzled. "I had not thought you so familiar with Cormack."

"We met at the masquerade. When you and Jareth stormed off, dragging Sarah with you, and Vane sauntered off, smirking, I stayed to smooth things over with our master. He is," Huw paused, thinking, "a very persuasive man, under his bluff façade…"

Aethan's eyes narrowed. There was something in this that he did not like. "And what did you find to talk about?" Slowly, he began to coil his body, casting about for something he could use as a weapon. It would not be the first time, in a long and patchwork career, that he had been betrayed by a close and trusted colleague.

Bluff, hearty Cormack, so warm and open and generous.

"We talked of the past, and of the future. We talked of you, and of your bond with Jareth – he said, and I believe him, that you would never destroy your own son. And you never will, will you? You chose him over the lord you've served for thousands of years…"

"Does Cormack fear our alliance? Do _you? _Or –" he looked deep into Huw's eyes, ruthlessly discarding the memory of the young, eager boy, "do you _resent _it, Huw?"

Huw flinched, blanching in the flickering light.

"Is that it? Do you think you will be left out, that we will carve the Underground up between us?"

"Shut up!" Huw hissed, angry now. "It is nothing to me! I am a loyal servant of the King you abandoned in his time of–"

"You are a dupe. And I doubt Cormack is as helpless as you or I thought, if he is cunning enough to suborn you without my knowledge."

Huw's hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

His _gloved _hands.

"The goblins may be immune to iron, my lord Aethan, but _you _are not."

Slowly, carefully, he drew out a long, slim blade, gleaming dully with a patina of solid, opaque grey.

* * *

They watched the boy disappear down the end of the corridor, before they went back into Sarah's apartment. Bran frowned again, and Jareth, watching him, raised a brow.

"Well, Bran? It was Vane's doing, as we thought – but what else troubles you?"

Bran's eyes were troubled as he leaned against the counter in Sarah's very small kitchen. "Sarah had a vision, earlier this morning."

"A vision? I didn't think she was foresighted."

"No. I was scrying, and I invited her to try – it was no silver bowl, but she saw your father, and Huw."

Jareth's eyes flicked to his, questioning, suddenly suspicious.

"She saw Huw standing behind your father," Bran said quietly, "fingering a knife –"

"You thought _Huw _suborned the old woman?" He was frowning, but not incredulous – Jareth was no stranger to betrayal, either.

"I thought so. I thought… But…Vane has many tools. You are here, drawn away, and I don't believe in coincidence."

There was a long, taut silence, before Jareth rolled his wrist and snapped a crystal into existence. Bran caught his arm, restraining him –

"No! You cannot react so precipitously! Stop, and think –"

"He is my _father!" _Jareth snarled, his eyes wild and feral.

"You don't know what you will rush into. If Huw is a traitor, he may have already opened our gates. And what if you are the target, or Sarah?"

"I cannot leave him in danger! He is not a warrior, Bran –"

"He is surrounded by guards," Bran hissed, holding hard to Jareth's arm, his muscles straining as he fought to hold his lord in place. "Caede, and Owen, and any number of others – stay _here, _in safety. You are not a warrior, either. You are our _King."_

Jareth would have none of it. Gathering his power, he opened the way to the Underground –

Bran tried one last time. "_Think of Sarah, fool!"_

But there was nothing he could do. With a sudden shock, the world blinked out of focus, and they were falling, falling…

Falling…

Until they landed with a solid jolt on the stone floor of the throne room.

* * *

"What are you going to do, Huw?" Aethan asked softly. "Kill me? How do you think you'll get away with it?"

"All of you – you, Jareth, Bran, you're all so focused on Vane. For centuries, you've thought him the main enemy – it won't be hard to cast the blame onto his shoulders, once Jareth and Bran find me weeping over your corpse." There was something very strange, very twisted about the look in Huw's eyes and the manic tone of his voice. "No one will suspect the benevolent Summer Lord."

Backing away, Aethan raised his voice. "Guards!" he called, but was not surprised when there was no response. No, Huw was too thorough – Aethan had trained him too well.

"They're dead," Huw said simply. "Caede, and Owen, and the other Exiles on duty in the castle – they all trusted me enough to take untasted wine from my hands. I thought of poisoning you, too, but you're alert for it – you see treachery in every shadow, filigreed plots in every shared glance. But you don't look for knives, Aethan."

Looking into his eyes, Aethan knew that Huw was too far gone for talk or negotiation. He would have to wrest the knife away from him, turn it against him –

"Do you think you can kill me, old man?" Huw asked. Young, strong, agile Huw, who practiced daily with the soldiers.

"I don't know. But I won't let you kill me, boy. I won't give you the satisfaction."

Huw lunged. Aethan fell back, dodging out of the way; Huw followed his movement and tried to gut him. Once, Aethan had seen a guard grasp a man's arm and _twist, _breaking his grip – Huw slipped out of his grasp like an eel, writhing, his hand snaking out, the knife missing Aethan's face by inches.

There was a crash and a clatter as one of them tripped over a side table; they both went down, Aethan twisting desperately to avoid being pinned. Huw was younger, stronger, and more skilled –

This could not be happening. He was Aethan, son of Loth; he had survived war, treachery and natural disaster for thousands of years. He would _not_ die like this, stabbed to death in a squalid backwater castle, betrayed by his closest and most trusted companions.

He rose up, exerting all his strength, throwing Huw off. He grabbed a poker from the collection near the fireplace, swung with all his strength, connected and had the satisfaction of hearing Huw grunt in pain. He regained his feet, staggering a little, and swung again – Huw grabbed the poker, pulled him off balance, and lunged again. There was a _riiipp, _and Aethan staggered as the knife was caught in the thick fabric of his coat.

He closed with Huw, grappling as best he could, trying to gouge his eyes or crush his throat. Huw went down, and he followed, his fists clenched and ready –

There was a moment of searing, icy pain.

* * *

"Guards!" Jareth shouted, sprinting through the castle corridors, his robes flying behind him. Goblins scattered in his wake, squealing and chattering.

"They're not coming," Bran called. "Wait – Jareth!" He bent down to a big, misshapen goblin, jumping up and down eagerly trying to grab his attention. "Babbitt says they're all dead."

Jareth came to an abrupt halt, his white flyaway hair haloed in the flickering light.

"Dead?" he echoed, his head cocked as if he did not quite understand. "What do you mean, dead?"

The goblin tugged at Bran's robes, leading him towards a sitting room off the main corridor. Jareth followed, slowly, his gait heavy, as it had not been for years. There, in the sitting room, sprawled in twisted, abandoned death, were the ten Exiles Jareth had left to guard the castle –

Cullen. Leith. Llacheu. Adan. Eoin. Brun. Marach. Tyr. And Caede, and his brother Owen…

A clay goblet had spilled from Llacheu's hand, dark red wine staining the carpeting. The lees were thick and black, and the bouquet was heady and overpowering in the small room.

Jareth made a low, animal sound deep in his throat.

"Jareth?" Bran asked, uneasy. He turned to see his sovereign's white, set face, those avian eyes unfocused and unseeing. They stared into some private hell, as they had once done, centuries ago, when three of his followers writhed, coughed and choked to a bloody, painful death in the iron mountains.

He turned on his heel and ran.

Further up and further in, they went, the castle rearranging itself to Jareth's will as they passed. In this the heart of his power, he could twist space and time to his desire, bypass the laws of nature with a wave of his hand. But he could not bring back ten dead men, or warn his father of the danger at his back –

"Father!" he called, sending his voice echoing through the entire castle.

* * *

His hand raised to put Aethan out of his misery, Huw hesitated, the echoes of Jareth's voice giving him pause.

He cursed.

Aethan, gasping, reached his hand down to his side and examined the slick, red blood coating his fingers. Then he surged up, his hand driving into Huw's face, flipping him over and scrabbling for the knife. Huw clenched his fists and drove them into Aethan's side, exacerbating the wound – grunting, breath hissing desperately in their lungs, they struggled viciously for advantage.

Aethan was cunning, sly, and desperate to survive, but Huw was driven by hatred and obsessive jealousy, and had all the advantages of youth and strength. Eventually, Huw bore Aethan down, pinned his wrists, and drove the knife into him again and again and again.

* * *

Jareth burst through the door just in time to see Huw, gasping, bend down to Aethan and try for his pulse.

"Treachery!" Huw cried, fluttering desperately around Aethan's limp, bloodied form. "Vane's spies have reached us even here!"

Bran, coming through the door just behind him, did not even try to restrain Jareth as he launched himself at Huw. The young aide staggered as Jareth, fully grown, fully trained, hit him mid-body with all the strength of his grief, hatred, and mad frustration –

"'Ware!" Bran shouted, eyes wide as he spotted the gloved hands, and the dull grey sheen of the knife. "'Ware the knife–"

Jareth's white, steely hand gripped Huw's wrist and bore it down, down, down, until Huw shouted and twisted, slashing back at Jareth's chest. Startled, Jareth jumped back and released him, and Huw turned and ran.

Deliberately, Bran stepped aside and let him go.

"What are you doing?" Jareth snarled, leaping to his feet and heading after him.

Bran put his arm out, stopping him. "No. Wait. He carries iron – there are others, more fit, who will stop him."

"Who?"

Bran looked down at Babbitt, bobbing eagerly at his feet. Following his gaze, Jareth smiled, slowly, and strode to the head of the stairway; the castle rearranged itself with him, opening onto the throne room and the gibbering goblins upset and disturbed by the chaos. In short, sharp words, he rapped out a command –

The confused, chaotic babble turned into a roar.

Huw, fleeing headlong, made the mistake of looking back.

* * *

Slowly, heavily, Jareth made his way back into the room, and knelt down beside his father's body. Aethan's coat was slashed and torn, and the white shirt beneath it was soaked with blood. He was breathing still, but shallowly, every breath harsh and laboured, and he had barely enough strength to keep his eyes open.

Jareth gripped his hand, unable to believe that his vital, cunning father could be reduced to this quivering, broken flesh. "Father…" he whispered, his voice trembling.

"J…Jareth…" Aethan murmured, almost soundlessly. Slowly, with great difficulty, he smiled, that same crooked, wry smile that Jareth remembered from his boyhood. "Always knew…be…death of me…"

Jareth's grip tightened. "Huw is dead, father. But I'll see Vane _dead_ for this."

Those eerie, mismatched eyes, so like his, were fading quickly. But Jareth thought he saw a spark of irony, of familiar laughter – "Vane?" Aethan exhaled. "N-not Vane…"

"What! Father!" he shouted, shaking his father's shoulder. "Father, what do you mean?"

But there was no answer.

Aethan, son of Loth breathed his last in the Castle beyond the Goblin City, far from his home, but he was not alone in death – his betrayer went ahead of him, torn apart by maddened, ravening goblins, and in the world of the living, his youngest, favourite son cradled him, desperately, in his arms…

* * *

Bran turned away as Jareth bowed his head and wept.

* * *


	23. Opportunities

A/N – Aethan was one of my favourite OCs. I did not kill him off lightly. Thanks to all those people who expressed their shock, grief and distress.

Disclaimer – I don't own Labyrinth. Having said that, there's a great deal of leeway…

* * *

**Chapter 23**

* * *

"Could I have saved him?" Jareth asked, his words slurred, his eyes dark and dull.

The heavy silver scrying bowl, dominating the fire lit room, mocked both of them with its inscrutability, the wine-dark water sluggish and opaque.

It reminded Bran of the purple-black lees that had spilled from the guards' poisoned cups.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "But Huw might have turned on _you, _then."

It was no comfort, he knew. Storm-crow, some of the Goblins called him, black-cloaked doom-courier; and so he often was. But because he was more than a pragmatic bodyguard, because he was genuinely fond of Jareth and tolerant of his moods and whims, he offered what comfort he could. "_If_s and _maybe_s – you know how useless they are. He is dead – accept it and move on."

As expected, that crass insensitivity roused Jareth to a wan show of anger. "_Thank _you, Brother Raven."

"Now you have legitimate cause for attack. Your father's assassination, in your own castle –"

"It was not Vane."

Bran made an inquisitive noise.

"It was not Vane." Jareth stood up, his voice strengthening. "He told me that much, before the end."

Slowly, he began to pace, his movements increasingly fluid as his anger rose, pure and hot and strong. His hair and trailing robes rose and fluttered in an invisible wind, his face shifting subtly as his thin veneer of humanity slipped away.

"And when I find the bastard who ordered it, I will destroy him so utterly that succeeding generations will speak his name in –"

A white, shining figure, terrible in his fury, Jareth swept magnificently from the room, disappearing into the deepest, oldest depths of the castle. Pleased, Bran let him go. Let him wallow in righteous, vengeful wrath: thoughts of revenge and destruction were far healthier than self-pity and helpless grief.

Quietly arranging things so that his monarch would not be troubled by petty details, Bran prepared to go back Aboveground and reclaim the most troublesome of their loose ends.

* * *

There was a knock on the door.

Trapped in her apartment for hours, she'd spent the time pacing furiously as she cursed the Goblin King and all his works. Therefore, she was in a magnificent temper when she saw Bran waiting outside and wrenched the door open, preparing to subject him to the full force of her anger.

But when he lifted his gaze and fixed her with dull, flat eyes, she knew there was something very wrong.

"What is it?" she asked quietly, standing aside to let him inside the apartment.

He raised a brow, but the irony was stretched thin. "Weren't you going to blast me with abuse, Sarah? You looked quite fearsome when you opened the door."

She winced. "I _was _going to," she replied in a small voice. "But then I saw… Something's wrong, Bran. What's happened? Is it Jareth?"

"No, not Jareth." Bran shrugged out of his black cloak and tossed it over the back of the couch, sinking down wearily into the cushions. "Aethan is dead."

* * *

"Aethan is dead," Black Donn repeated, savouring the words like fine wine. They echoed in the cool, gloomy stillness of his private apartments in the High King's palace, where he had taken residence as the young High King's chief puppet master. "Was that your doing, Vane?"

"No." Vane frowned, his fingers tap-tap-tapping discontentedly on the table. "This was none of my doing, though they will all believe it was."

"Hmm." The Winter King looked sidelong at his younger cousin, wondering what he was thinking. Ice-cold, always composed Vane, who had not been happy to hear of his rival's premature death.

"To die like _that," _Vane murmured, "I would not have…" He looked up, his eyes dark and fierce. "It should never have been like that…"

"What?" Donn demanded, whiplash sharp. "A magnificent coup? A culmination of your grand rivalry? What does it matter, as long as the bastard's out of the way?"

Sometimes, he thought, these subtle counselors became enamoured of their own webs.

"The embers have been smouldering since the end of the Council. Aethan's death will be the spark – _any_one who fancies their chances in this game will see it as an opportunity. That is what should be important, cousin, the ends, the chances; not the ways and means."

But still, Vane's eyes were hooded and discontent.

* * *

The milling, baying hunt stopped for the midday meal in a green, leafy clearing, where the servants had arranged an appetizing feast and scattered cushions and comfortable chairs artistically throughout the greenery. The hunters, laughing and chattering amongst themselves gaily, partook of the feast and arranged themselves where they willed, their spirits high and joyous.

Quaffing a great, refreshing draught of ale, the Summer King sprawled against the bole of an ancient beech and overlooked his court, his golden eyes sharp despite his pose of lazy satisfaction.

"Majesty?" The courtier, bland and inconspicuous, approached into the periphery of his vision. Vaguely recognizing him as one of Aethan's many agents, Cormack beckoned him over, eager to hear what he had to say.

When he hesitated, the king waved his hand, impatiently sending everyone out of his presence and beyond earshot. Within seconds, the clearing was deserted, the Fair Folk fled elsewhere, obedient to their sovereign's will.

"What is it?" Cormack asked.

"Majesty," the agent bowed again. "A messenger has come from the Goblin Kingdom: Lord Aethan is dead. The messenger speaks of an unfortunate accident, claiming the lives of several of the Goblin King's guards, as well as Lord Aethan and his assistant Huw."

"Gods." Slowly, his face interestingly pale, Cormack took a long, thoughtful sip of his ale. "Both of them? How?"

So Huw was dead also? Had he died before or after Jareth's Crow could drag the name of his employer out of him?

"Our spies say that Huw suddenly went mad, poisoning a number of the castle guards and stabbing Aethan with an iron blade. Aethan died, and Jareth ordered the goblins to tear Huw apart. Your Majesty," the agent murmured, his eyes lowered, "no one seems to have any idea why Huw turned – but the name most mentioned is that of the Lord Vane, of Winter."

The agent, despite his inscrutability, looked more upset by the treacherous murder than a mere employee – especially of such a demanding man as Aethan – should be. He would have to be replaced, soon, but perhaps his anger could be channeled…

Cormack assumed his fiercest expression, equal parts sorrow, anger and determination. "Vane has gone too far, this time. Aethan was one of my oldest companions, and my most trusted counselor." He stood up, rising to his full six feet six inches, and threw his chest out in a magnificent, leonine roar. His presence, his voice, his will, filled the entire clearing and echoed throughout the forest. "I have stood firm against their importunities ere this, but I can ignore Winter's belligerence no longer! The Kingdom of Summer will ride to war!"

* * *

The High King sat very still at his council table, staring with fierce determination at all the lords and petty kings who had given him their support in the hope that he could break the Underground's deadlock. An emergency meeting had been called, once the news had come through of the shocking, unexpected developments. But things were not going as he had planned.

Yvannimir of Allesiona, chafing under Black Donn's heavy hand, stood ponderously and looked at Dante through old, contemptuous eyes that said they remembered when his grandfather was a babe in swaddling clothes.

"I think you know why we're all here, my lord," he said, his blunt, forthright speech entirely characteristic of a kingdom of root farmers and earth-digging peasants. "We promised you our support on the understanding that you would return the land to the High King's Writ. And yet," he raised his voice and pointed an accusing finger at Dante's chest, "my spies tell me you've been negotiating with Winter behind our backs!"

"That is _no _concern of yours, Yvannimir," Dante snapped. "What I do is–"

"It is very much my concern – indeed, all our concern – when you look set to travel down a road that will see you become Winter's puppet!"

"Shall I become _your _puppet then, my lords?" he flared back angrily, shoving his chair back and raising himself to his full height. "If I am to be High King then I will _be _High King absolute, beholden to nothing and no one. I will not allow you to dictate to me in this manner, not you, not Jareth, not Cormack or even Black Donn himself!"

Slow, mocking applause echoed through the chamber, and all eyes flew to the right, where Vane, leaning against one of the huge marble columns that lined the wall, was clapping his hands together, his eyes dark and sardonic.

The nobles and petty kings, many of whom owed allegiance to Winter, felt his gaze upon them and realized that everything they had said here would be repeated.

"Yvannimir," he drawled, prowling slowly across the room to stand just behind where Dante stood, "you do not seem to understand the significance of what our lord High King sought from us. Surely you have heard of the prophecy?"

"Fuck the prophecy!" The ruler of Allesiona cursed defiantly, his hands clenched into fists. "Especially if it comes from you. We don't need your involvement in this."

"No," Dante said, his voice firm and confident. "No, you will not come to blows here – not you, Yvannimir, nor you Vane. Have you not heard the news? Aethan is _dead, _and Cormack has declared war –"

"Yes, and whose fault is that?" Another noble interjected bitterly. "_Vane _killed him. Cormack declared war on Winter, not on us."

"You _are _Winter, gentlemen. You, Wysteron, and you, Llandeu – nearly half of you. And those few of you aren't Non-Aligned fall under Summer's cloak. You cannot say that this does not affect you, because soon enough if we do nothing to stop it you will all be at war with each other."

"And how do you suggest we stop the war?" Yvannimir scowled and sent a sidelong glance towards Vane.

"Why have you stayed under their jurisdiction for so long? Because you fear. But if you – all you here – pull away, refuse to fight for them…"

"And swear allegiance to you."

"Yes." Resolute, buoyed up on heady feelings of victory, Dante smiled fiercely. "And swear allegiance to me."

"And what does Winter think of this?" Sidelong, surreptitious glances sought out Vane, who had wandered over to lean against one of the columns, arms crossed nonchalantly.

Vane only smiled. "Naturally, my lord King acknowledges the sovereignty of the High King." Not by one flicker did he acknowledge the skeptical scowls and exclamations of the others in the room. "If, by our humble efforts, we contribute to the reinstatement of the High King's Writ, then we will be satisfied."

* * *

It was an idyllic place: a small, rambling cottage, filled with the scent of grass, flowers, and the chuckling stream that flowed just out of sight. Sarah looked around her in wonder, remembering her thoughts the first time Aethan had brought her here – it was every dream of an English cottage on the fringe of the woods, surrounded by rioting flowers and peppery-smelling herbs.

"Is this Aethan's estate?" she asked Bran, who looked even more out of place than he had done Aboveground. "It's beautiful."

Jareth turned in his saddle to answer her. "This is part of it, yes. There is a manor house further on, but…" he hesitated, his eyes darkening, "my mother loved this place best."

As they rode towards it, their horses' hooves thudding slowly, two men moved out of the doorway and stood on the old, ivy-covered steps leading down into the garden.

Sarah drew in her breath.

"Behold," one of them said, "the Goblin King returns." He was tall, and lean, with the same angular features as Jareth, but his white-fair hair was much longer, caught back in a simple braid. His robes were stark black, as were Jareth's, but they fell about him severe and straight, with none of Jareth's instinctive flamboyance.

"Caeth," Jareth said curtly. He swung his eyes to the other man. "Ophir. I have returned with his ashes."

Caeth, stark and severe, made an odd, bitter noise. "So it is true. You were with him at the end." He moved with surprising grace down the steps towards Jareth, advancing until he was close enough to touch him. "Tell me, little brother, what did he say, at the last? Was he thinking of us, of Mother? Or were his last words for you, and for this madness that has overtaken the Underground."

Jareth said nothing. Sarah looked at him, concerned, and saw that he was frozen –

_The fae do not lie, Sarah…_

"Enough, Caeth," the second man – the second _brother _– said, moving down to join them. "Our father is dead. There is no need for this."

"There is every need. Once again, our brother's ambition has dragged us all into chaos. Summer declares war, Winter joins with the High King – will you join with Cormack, now, _Goblin King,_ using our father –"

"Enough!" Sarah hissed, stepping in between them. "Jareth risked his life to bring your father back here for a proper funeral. The least you can all do is show some respect for the dead and call a truce."

For a moment, Jareth looked stunned at her defence. But then Caeth and Ophir turned to stare at her, their surprise and contempt at her humanity clear.

"Jareth," Ophir murmured, "who is this?"

"This is Sarah," Jareth said, reaching out and pulling her against his side. "She is mine."

* * *

A/N – Next week, Sarah thinks on that last comment.

Re: "Storm-crow": _"Why should I welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?" _From _'The King of the Golden Hall', The Two Towers._

Feedback is always gratefully appreciated. Thanks to all those who review.


	24. Trust

Disclaimer – I don't own the Labyrinth, any of its characters, situations or settings. Don't sue.

* * *

**Chapter 24**

* * *

It started slowly, a spark, an ember; a small raid on an insignificant village, an unimportant skirmish over a border long forgotten. But for those with eyes to see, who could remember the inexorable build-up to the great wars of a thousand years ago, the signs were unmistakable.

Long, elegant fingers playing restlessly over the pieces set up on his chessboard, Vane charted Winter's safest and most prosperous course through the upcoming chaos.

* * *

The small, burbling creek was calm and clear, and the current sluggish. Sarah swirled her toes in the cool water and remembered Jareth's assurance: there were no hidden undercurrents here, no dangers for the unwary or untrained.

If only she could say that about the rest of the Underground.

A few paces to her right, Jareth sat sprawled on the mossy ground. He was barefoot, wearing only a loose shirt and worn, faded breeches, and his unrestrained, flyaway hair looked even less disciplined than before. Somehow the small, informal touches made him less intimidating, and far more approachable than she had ever seen him before –

"You're staring," he murmured, turning his head, his mismatched eyes staring straight into hers.

She blinked, swallowed. "I've never seen you so…" she moved her hands, "off-guard. You're always so very much the Goblin King."

"I was a man before I was a king," he said, grinning suddenly. "Even after the Labyrinth changed me. Sometimes, though, I need to remember it –" He stood up and stretched, and her eyes followed the bunch and play of the sleek muscles in his back.

When he dived into the water, barely raising a splash, she drew in a long, deep breath.

For years she'd been haunted by the memory of his cryptic, tantalising offer. She'd dreamed of him – the silken opponent, the handsome prince, the desperate tormentor – all through her turbulent adolescence, until she finally put away her childish things and got on with her life. Even after her return to the Underground, she'd raged against the implacable ruler and the Machiavellian schemer.

But that had been the Goblin King, in all his guises – never before had she met Jareth.

A soft splash drew her attention, and she saw that he had broken the surface and was beginning to wade back to the bank.

"What did you mean?" she asked quietly, knowing that he would hear her even above the noise of the water. "When you claimed that I was yours, yesterday."

He stopped. Focused his full attention on her. "Exactly what I meant. You are mine, Sarah: you swore allegiance to me, bound yourself and your fortunes to mine just as surely as any one of my subjects."

"But there has to be more than that. I know possessiveness when I see it, Jareth – and you don't grab Bran or any other of your exiles like you did me, and you don't throw your relationship with them in your brothers' faces."

He said nothing as he waded the rest of the way to the bank, and then pulled himself out to collapse onto the mossy ground again.

"Jareth?" she prodded insistently.

"Sarah," he answered. "Sweet Sarah. The mark of the Underground is stamped upon you, for all those with eyes to see. You were safe Above, mired in your careful anonymity and your disbelief. But now that you have opened your eyes, now that you have returned, it is brighter than ever. And while mortals are no longer prey, as Lucrezia Nevismouth would have us believe –"

She bridled, sensing where this was going and not liking it. "Are you saying –?"

"I moved to claim you before anyone else could. I made damned sure you were bound to me, and not to any other."

Some part of her wanted to rage, shout, and stamp her foot. But she was learning.

"Again: what does this 'bound to you' business entail?"

He looked at her, his mouth slightly amused. "Nothing like what you are thinking, obviously. You swore to be one of my subjects, nothing more. I will give you protection in return for obedience. If you commit a crime outside the Goblin Kingdom, you will fall under _my _laws. And if anyone endangers or interferes with you I will intervene on your behalf."

"So I'm safe from everyone but you," she said.

He grinned. "Essentially, yes. All this is, of course, subject to my remaining in power and maintaining a position of influence in the Underground. If I fall, then so does everyone else underneath me…" He drew in a breath, serious now. "I must ask you to trust me, Sarah. Please. Believe that I can find a way through this maze."

She stared at him, thinking, for the first time, of the Goblin Kingdom and its inhabitants: the strange, twisted denizens of the Labyrinth, and the incredibly diverse crowds that thronged the streets and markets of the Goblin City. Every single one of them went about their lives in happy ignorance of the manoeuvring and jockeying of courts and princes, trusting in Jareth to maintain the peace and prosperity in which they thrived.

Meanwhile lords and kings played dangerous games with prophecies and age-old rivalries, and the Underground marched closer and closer to war.

"Do you ever worry?" she asked abruptly.

"All the time," he answered, with a wry, crooked smile.

* * *

"What kind of foolishness is this, Bran? She is _human. _He can't possibly–"

Bran stared at Jareth's eldest brother, Caeth. Full four hundred years older than Jareth, he was a settled, respected landowner, highly regarded by his peers and neighbours – but everything he had ever done, he did in the shadow of first his father, and then his youngest brother. Bran wondered if he resented that.

"He can do whatever he pleases," he answered blandly. "He is king absolute, answering to no other –"

"And yet he advocates the High King's return to power. Or does he? He has changed tack, in the last year."

Bran kept his face blank. "And nor do I answer to you," he said, very calmly.

Ophir, ever the peacemaker, attempted to smooth over the jagged, fractured tension. "Surely we are all on the same side, here?" he asked earnestly. "We do not ask you to betray your king, but if there is any information we need to know –"

"If I have information that you need to know, Ophir, you may be sure that I will share it with you," Jareth drawled, interrupting Bran's frigid response. By his side, Sarah watched them all with wary, serious eyes. "Until then, enough of these games."

Not for the first time, Bran marvelled at Jareth's flawless sense of timing.

"Games?" Caeth sputtered. "This is not a game, Jareth. The world spirals closer and closer to war with every moment. And yet you dally with this…this _human _girl, when you should be out finding her brother!"

"I know exactly where her brother is," Jareth finally answered, controlling his volatile temper, Aethan's temper that had been a curse for most of his life. "He is in Vane's hands, and is unlikely to be pried away from them any time soon. I do not waste time with things that cannot be changed."

Sarah frowned, but thankfully refrained from commenting.

"There are powers in this world that are beyond our control," Jareth continued. "Beyond even Vane's control, though he believes otherwise. Toby falling into Winter's hands, and Sarah into mine, at this present time, when the tensions of a thousand years reach breaking point – I do not believe it coincidence."

Ophir frowned. "It is an easy way out, to say unseen powers manipulated you. If any unseen powers moved this situation, it was greed, and ambition, and ancient hatreds and rivalries." His voice was serious, thoughtful; he had ever been a philosopher.

"The prophecy –"

"You don't believe in it any more than I do," Caeth sneered.

Bran sighed, his eyes turning back to Jareth to view the inevitable response.

"But I do," Jareth said. "Oh, I do. I have called upon wild magic, and felt it shape and change me, seen it shape and change the world around me. I don't live in settled, peaceful bliss, in a land where the magic is thoroughly tamed and domesticated. I've crossed the Mountains of Blood and ridden across primeval lands where the magic is dark and wild, and I tell you I do believe in prophecy, and unbreakable oaths, and the High King's divine right to power."

"Then why do you not fight for him, even now?" Ophir broke in, his calm, gentle voice cutting through the angry tension. "There will be no better time; Cormack has declared war –"

"Cormack!" Jareth said, very softly, his eyes flaring. "Damned," he said emphatically, "_damned _if he will declare war in our father's name –"

Caeth shot up from his chair and began to pace, his temper well and truly roused. "He seeks justice for Father's death. He, at least, will move against Winter, even if no one else dares."

"Winter?" Jareth stared at him, his eyes glittering, his face white and taut. "_Huw _killed him, you fool."

Caeth stopped pacing. He and Ophir exchanged glances in absolute silence, as they took in that incredible statement. To think that treachery could come from one so closely trusted… "On whose orders?"

"I don't know," Jareth sighed. "Father swore, with his last breath, that it was not Vane. My instinct, my gut feeling, tells me that Cormack is not as bluff and hearty as he likes to pretend, and that this war was hardly launched on impulse. Everything is moving so quickly… Father always said there was a reason he was King."

"This is a very serious accusation," Caeth said, frowning heavily. "Our father's liege lord…"

"Will you stand with him, then?" Jareth's voice held absolutely no inflection.

And now they came to it, Bran thought. Where did their loyalties lie, these two steady, settled brothers, who had far more to lose than Jareth. They had estates and responsibilities, wives and children of their own.

There was a long, long silence. Finally, Caeth shook his head and swore under his breath. "Traitor, fool or madman, you are our brother, Jareth. Whatever has gone before, we will not leave you to face this on your own."

Jareth smiled. Slowly, awkwardly, the three brothers clasped hands, reaffirming ancient, long-forgotten bonds of loyalty and love.

* * *

"My lord," a soft-footed servant murmured, "the boy…"

Vane looked up from his plans. "What of him?"

"He won't stop crying." The servant sounded apologetic, as though he were embarrassed to disturb his master with such trivial tidings. But Vane had given specific orders that he was to be informed of every aspect of the boy's routine. "He calls out for his sister incessantly. And not an hour ago," the servant coughed, "he called for the Goblin King."

"He wished himself away?" Vane asked, with an involuntary shiver. To give yourself over to another, to surrender yourself totally into their hands – it was a very uncomfortable thought.

"Yes, my lord."

Vane looked down at his papers once more, his mind busy calculating and planning. Jareth was under a strict _geas_ to answer and take in all those who called him from the Aboveground – but at the moment Toby was not, strictly speaking, Above. It was entirely possible that Jareth heard him – it was said that he heard all those who called upon him, whether they used his true name or not – but Vane doubted he would be foolish enough to answer the summons, whether it a compulsion or not. Not here. Not in the very heart of Winter, surrounded by so many enemies.

"He won't answer," he said confidently. "His hands are tied."

"Very well, my lord," the servant answered. Bowing, he retreated discreetly and returned to the nursery, leaving Vane alone with his thoughts once more, confident of Jareth's inability to act.

But Vane, experienced in worldly politics and the games of princes and kings, had failed to take into account the prophecy, and the actions of powers beyond the corporeal world…


	25. Author's Note & Ch 25

**Important Announcement**: Unfortunately, due to extreme lack of inspiration, I have decided to discontinue this story. I've sat on chapter 25 for more than a year, trying to write more than discussions, arguments, and tangles, but could not find a way forward to the end. I apologise to all fans and readers who have kept up with this over the years.

I'll leave you with what little I managed to write for chapter 25.

**Disclaimer** – I don't own the Labyrinth, or any of its canon characters, settings or situations. Don't sue.

* * *

"_I wish the Goblin King would come and take me away, right now."_

It was very late. The household had long since settled into silence, the servants resting, the guards not on watch dozing, a drowsy, dulled sense of awareness. Bran, Caeth and Ophir had long since retired to their bedchambers. Only Sarah and Jareth remained, the Goblin King standing at the drawing-room window, his attention fixed on the north-east, on the origin of the Call that had been tugging at him for hours.

"It's Toby, isn't it," Sarah said, watching him, watching the moonlight shine on his white, white skin and hair. She was curled up in an old, over-stuffed armchair, a warm woollen blanket clutched around her shoulders.

He tilted his head, half-turned towards her. "Yes." For a moment, she was struck by the movement, the sudden resemblance to an owl.

"But he is still with those other men, with Vane and…and the High King."

"Dante, yes. He is still in their custody, and Calling upon me – hisright, twice-returned from my kingdom – but when it comes to my answering him, as is _my_ right and obligation…" he paused. "That is where it becomes complicated."

"You think it's a trap."

"It would not be the first time my _geas_ has been used to ensnare me." His eyes darkened, as if at an old, bitter memory.

Weeks ago, before she had tumbled into this mess and was forced to rely on Jareth, because otherwise she would be hopelessly outmatched, she would have flared up hotly in Toby's defence. But she had promised to trust Jareth, on that day by the stream, even if only a little. She forced herself to be patient, to believe that he was not always concealing nefarious motives and alternate agendas.

Perhaps – just perhaps – he was doing the best he could.

"Jareth, please. He is my brother. Is there _any _other way? Turn this trap back upon Vane? From what you've told me, taking him out would be a terrific blow to the enemy."

The closed, bitter expression faded, smoothed out as Jareth considered her suggestion. Abruptly, he strode to the door and out into the corridor. Sarah, taken aback, rose to follow him, hurrying in his footsteps. She caught up with him at the door to Bran's chambers, where, instead of opening the door and going in, he rapped softly, even politely.

He looked at her. "It does not do to startle him out of sleep. He wakes extremely quickly."

Moments later, Bran opened the door. Shorn of his drifting black robes, his hair unbraided, he looked softer, less like the menacing shadow of his daytime persona. He turned his eyes to Jareth, questioning.

"Is there any way we can snatch Toby away from Dante and Vane in their own war-camp?" Jareth asked, without preliminaries.

Bran's eyes slid to Sarah's, then, but he said nothing, simply headed back into his chambers, leaving the door open so that they could follow him in. There were old, twisting designs tattooed on his back, like intertwining Celtic knots. Sarah looked away, uncomfortable with interfering in such a reserved man's privacy.

"Very few things are truly impossible," Bran answered, sinking down into an elegant, inlaid chair. "if you are willing to bear the consequences. How badly do you want this?" He looked to Jareth when he said that, not Sarah.

Sarah, if so questioned, would have hesitated only a moment before deciding she would do anything to rescue her brother. Jareth was not so certain.

"What would it cost?" he asked, finally.

Bran was silent for a moment, his eyes distant and turned inwards in thought. Unlike Vane, he did not play chess. He thought not of pawns and tokens, but of flesh and blood – but nor would he hesitate to order men to their deaths.

"A diversionary attack, perhaps, to cover a targeted infiltration – I assume you only want the boy, not Vane or the High King?"

Jareth grinned, slowly, his teeth white and predatory. "If we could kill Vane…" he drew in his breath.

But Bran wasted no time in disabusing him. "Black Donn will lay the entire Underground to waste."

"I know." Regretfully, Jareth conceded. "And whatever else he may be, Dante is the High King, rightfully anointed –" His eyes flicked to Sarah. "To slay him in anything but ritual combat would incur a horrific curse."

"Do you really believe that?" she asked, curious. "I mean, you don't seem –"

"Superstitious?"

Sarah paused before answering, dimly aware of all the pitfalls in Jareth's sharp-edged retort. remembering the naïve girl she had once been. Here, in the Underground, words, actions and ideas had power beyond imagining in the world Above. Jareth, though at times almost humanly rational and cynical, was still a creature of magic, bound by the fundamental laws of the Underground.

She did not want to start another argument. And so she bit down hard on her tongue, and said nothing.

"We will need more trained men," Bran continued, smoothly filling the taut silence. "The Exiles number nearly three hundred, not nearly enough for an assault on the High King and his allies."

Jareth shifted his focus back to his lieutenant. "How many men do you need?"

Sarah drew in her breath, let it out in a long sigh of relief.

And for the next few hours, she watched Jareth and Bran working in concert, Jareth giving the objectives, and Bran seeing that they were carried out. It was a long-lived, successful partnership, based on trust and long experience, and Sarah tried very hard not to feel left out –

She need not have. Had he been so inclined, Jareth could have reassured her on that point.

But Jareth had always been overly fond of games.

* * *


End file.
